


The Other One

by DoctorBilly



Series: Chimæra [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Billyverse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-14 22:20:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 50
Words: 53,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2205123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorBilly/pseuds/DoctorBilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft has a mission for Anthea, Lestrade and Billy. Sherlock and John have a job to do, too. </p><p>There is excitement along the way, and some romance. Oh, and a cliffhanger ending…</p><p>Tags: violence; guns, knives; astraphobia; acrophobia; flashbacks; blood and needles (first aid); non-consensual drug use (rohypnol); minor character death; human chimerism; tattoos; trans character; homophobia; transphobia; amnesia; eating disorder; rock music; gratuitous cookery; gratuitous tourist information; bad French; very bad Russian</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fortune and Glory Are Not Enough

The soldier walks quickly through Camden market, stopping occasionally to look at items on the stalls. Clothing, vintage sunglasses, belt buckles and knitted scarves. 

Money changes hands for a battered copy of a pulp science fiction novel by a favoured author and an original Swiss Army knife. They go into an old brown leather photographer's bag, chosen because it's size belies it's capacity. And because it has many very useful pockets. 

Last stop of the morning is the surplus store at the Stables end. 

"Bit big for you…"

"Hm. Got anything a bit smaller?"

It is cold, and the soldier is only wearing a jumper. Colleagues might consider it a bit sad to buy army-surplus clothing for off-duty, but the soldier doesn't care much what colleagues think. 

The sales assistant brings out an ex-army coat. Lovat green, brass buttons. Mid-calf. Perfect. 

The soldier buys the coat, puts it on, turns and walks away, vintage button-boot heels tapping, lace-edged vintage petticoats swirling, dark curls bouncing around her shoulders. 

She strolls through the crowds until she reaches a canal-side cafe, sits at an outside table. There are only one or two other hardy souls braving the February air. One of them is a greying, unshaven scruffy sort, wearing jeans and an old leather jacket. He sees her and smiles. She gets that a lot. She is pretty enough, she supposes. She raises an eyebrow at the man, who gets up and strolls over to her table. 

"This seat taken, miss?"

"Can't see anyone sitting in it, can you?"

The man grins, showing too many very white teeth. 

"No need to be sarky. Buy you a coffee?"

The soldier nods, corners of her mouth quirking into the beginning of a smile. 

"Latte. Whole milk. And a shot of amaretto syrup."

The man swaggers off into the café to get drinks. While she is waiting for him to come back, the soldier pulls her phone out of her pocket and checks her emails. Nothing since early that morning. Her contact is obviously waiting for her to report first.

The scruffy man comes back, with an amaretto latte for her and a flat white for himself. He sits at her table, putting his red-conversed feet up on a spare chair.

"Nice coat."

"Thanks. What I had wasn't warm enough. Will he come?"

"Not sure. He might need some more persuading. What's in it for him?"

"Fortune and glory…"

"He won't be interested."

"Intellectual satisfaction?"

"More up his street. Stemming from what, exactly?"

"Research. Classified. For now."

"You're not a researcher…"

"No. I'm doing something else. Classified, before you ask."

"What's my job?"

"Handy extra pair of fists, possibly. Babysitter…"

"Cheers. Makes me sound really useful."

"I won't patronise you by pretending you were my choice…"

"Cheers for that too. You'll grow to love me."

"Hmph."

"You're in charge of logistics?"

"Partly. You don't need to concern yourself with anything other than keeping your boy happy."

"He's not _my boy_ …"

"If you say so. Have you got your gear sorted?"

Yeah. He said casual…"

"Yes. No suits on this trip."

"Identities?"

"No false IDs. Not necessary."

"So. You're actually a Colonel?"

"Yes. I hold the rank."

"I thought your job was less… military."

"Yes. You would have thought that."

"Okay. What's our cover story?"

"Itinerant musicians."

The man laughs out loud. 

"I'm touring with a band? My team will love that."

"You're on secondment to my team. Yours won't know what you are doing. You brought your bass?"

"Yeah. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised you know I play…"

"Itinerant musicians wouldn't work as a cover without _musicians…_ "

The soldier laughs. 

"Let's go and persuade your boy."


	2. Pack your thermals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 221b Baker Street  
> Sherlock and John discuss a job they have to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a story of many, many short chapters. It alternates between two parallel sets of events. There will be a bit of crossover in the early chapters, and probably a merger later on.

"Well of course I'd _heard_ of her. Everyone had _heard_ of her. I just didn't realise I'd _met_ her. So she's a full Colonel now? Does Greg know who he's working with?"

"Doubtful."

"So what do we do while they're playing at being a band?"

"We work. We'll have two weeks of intensive top-up training. Weapons, strength and endurance, languages, unarmed combat…"

"We're going in to somewhere sticky?"

"Yes. A retrieval mission. Somewhere a little cooler than Afghanistan, you'll be pleased to hear."

"It can get cold there, especially at night…"

"Where we're going, it gets cold in the daytime,too. Pack thermal underwear. Those red flannel longjohns of yours are the type of thing. You can never get enough warm underwear."

"How do you know I've got red thermals? No. Don't bother to answer that."

Sherlock smirks.

"Pack warm socks as well. Don't want to get chilblains. Put wintergreen salve on the first aid kit list, just in case."

"How cold are we talking, Sherlock?"

"This time of year? Minus thirty, possibly a bit lower."

"Where the hell are we going?"

"Classified at the moment, John. I'm sorry…"

"Don't do this, Sherlock…"

"I have to. I don't want to, I know you don't like me keeping things from you."

"Don't run off anywhere without me."

"I won't."

John and Sherlock have had too many arguments about Sherlock's propensity for running off and leaving John behind. John hopes Sherlock really means it this time. 

"Why are they running around being a band, anyway? Just sounds like a bit of a holiday to me."

"The Colonel needs to meet with people here and there. It is a useful cover for her. And it will give Billy a chance to get to know her. She will be assessing his suitability for part of phase four…"

"You never mentioned a phase four."

"It's classified, John. All I can say is that you and I will be involved in it as well. If we survive and complete phase two, of course."

"If…?"

Sherlock smiles.

"When."

"All right. Why is Billy Wiggins involved in this, anyway?"

"He is quite brilliant, John. And will be uniquely valuable in the later stages of this mission."

"He always struck me as being a bit flaky."

"He is nervy. And a little bit scared of you, John. But he can fight if he has to, you've seen him in action, remember? He has an almost unprecedented ability to focus. He doesn't let his body dictate to his mind…"

"Sounds like someone else I know."

"He also has prestige, John. He was nominated for the Nobel prize for his first major piece of work. Not many people have that on their CV. Our partner will appreciate that."

"Partner?"

"Classified. Sorry, John."

John Watson gets up from the chair that is still _his_ chair, even though he doesn't live at 221b Baker Street any more, hasn't lived there for a long time. He goes to the kitchen and makes tea. 

"When do we go?"

"We'll need to finalise our kit tomorrow morning. Fill in the gaps that Mycroft has left. He always leaves something out. Usually the most important thing, like mosquito repellent. He does it on purpose."

"So, shopping for red pants and wintergreen tomorrow. Then?"

"Training. Salisbury. It'll be a bit soldiery…"

"You'll like that. All those uniforms." John laughs. "Am I being recalled to active duty? I've not heard anything…"

"No. Sadly, I won't get to see you in _your_ uniform…"

"Idiot."

"Stay over tonight, John?"

"All right."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting might be erratic. This is the first time I've loosed a fic into the wild before at least a full draft of it is complete. I do have a sketched arc, so I know where it is going. I promise not to let it die unfinished.


	3. Classified…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SeaGlass, Camden Lock  
> Billy does a bit of deducing.

Dr Bill Wiggins opens his front door. Blinks, then smiles at his visitors, stepping back from the door to allow them into his houseboat. 

"Hello Anthea. You look a bit different from usual…"

Billy has seen quite a lot of Anthea in her role as Mycroft Holmes's assistant. He is used to her in stilettos and pencil skirts, permanently attached to her Blackberry, red-lipsticked and frighteningly efficient. Her current 'look', lace-frilled petticoat, moth eaten jumper, vintage coat and boots, throws him for a moment. 

Anthea smiles to herself. The 'look' has been carefully constructed with Billy in mind. 

Gregor Lestrade walks past Billy, patting him on the shoulder. 

"You don't still think her name's Anthea, do you, Billy?"

"No, Greg. But I never managed to find out what it really is. Are you going to tell me?"

He smiles at Anthea, who has followed Lestrade through the door into his living room. 

Lestrade smiles a big sharky grin. 

"She wants to make you an offer, Billy."

"One I can't refuse, I expect. Considering who she works for…"

"Mm. I would prefer it if you didn't have to be coerced…" Anthea smiles at him.

"Greg mentioned you might want me for something. Is this another one of Mr H's schemes? Only I'm not at a loose end now. I've got work…"

"Your work is what makes you an ideal candidate for this, shall we say, excursion. You will be heading up a research team…"

"What sort of research?"

"Medical. Other details are classified at the moment. You will be informed on a 'need to know' basis. It is important, Dr Wiggins."

"Why me?"

"You come highly recommended."

"By who?"

"Classified, I'm afraid, unless you accept the offer."

"How long will this 'excursion' take?"

"I can't say. Three weeks, perhaps, for the initial phase, then as long as it takes for you to decide that the third phase is complete."

"For _me_ to decide?"

"You will be leading the team."

"What about the second phase?"

"You will not be involved in that."

"Hang on a minute…" Lestrade frowns. "How long is my involvement expected to last? I've got a job…"

"You are seconded to my team. You will be required for phase one only."

"I don't like the idea of leaving Billy somewhere overseas with no way of knowing when he's coming back…"

"What makes you think we are leaving the country?"

"Mycroft asked if I suffered from mal de mer …"

"Of course he did…. Dr Wiggins, how soon can you be ready? I know you do not currently have a project that requires your presence."

"When do we have to leave?"

"We need to be in Portsmouth by eight tonight. We will take my car. Pack what will fit in hand luggage and bring your guitar."

"Give me half an hour. Make yourselves comfortable."

Anthea sits on one of a pair of old cinema seats at Billy's kitchen table, her feet up on the other one. Lestrade sprawls. His own rucksack and gig bag are piled on the floor beside him. He had stayed on the houseboat the night before, spent some of it trying to talk Billy into accepting a place on the mission team, the rest of it sleeping on the sofa he is currently sitting on.

Billy comes out of the bedroom carrying a crammed-full despatch bag. He puts it in the pile with Lestrade's things and sets about unplugging and putting away his guitar. 

"So, which branch of the military are you?" Billy eyes Anthea speculatively. 

She stands and eyeballs him. 

"What makes you think I am military?"

"You've got a gun strapped to your thigh under all those frilly skirts, and two knives in your right boot. Your bracelet is a garrotting wire. You've got a fight-ready stance. Relaxed knees. And a way of scoping a room…"

Lestrade grins. Anthea scowls.

"He said you were clever. I wasn't convinced."

"So. Who are you when you're not being a secretary? Military, or MI6? Military, I'd guess. Special forces? SRR?"

"One of those. And I've _never_ been accused of being a _secretary…_ "

Lestrade smiles tightly. 

"Meet Colonel Smith, Billy. She's our new boss."

"It would probably be best to carry on calling me Anthea."

"You said no fake IDs…"

"You are less likely to forget the name you already know, DCI Lestrade."

"True. Call me Greg, Anthea."

"He calls you Gregor. Are you sure you wouldn't prefer that?"

"Greg is fine."

"Very well. Dr Wiggins, what should I call you?"

"Bill. Only a few people call me Billy. You'll have to earn that."

Anthea laughs. 

"I'll do my best. Now, shall we go?"


	4. Parachutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 221b Baker Street  
> John hears something he doesn't like the sound of.

Dr John Watson looks at his backpack. Sighs. Looks at the large pile of clothing and equipment that will have to fit into his backpack. Sighs again.

"Sherlock, are you sure we have to take everything with us? Won't we be provided with _anything_?"

"Of course we will be provided with some things, John. A tent, for example; firearms; possibly snowmobiles; parachutes…"

"Hold on. _Parachutes?_ "

"Yes. Is that a problem?"

"Er, yes?" 

"Have you never parachuted, John?"

"No. I've rapelled out of a helicopter, but you're attached to the chopper, and not so high up…"

"We'll have to find some space for parachute training in our schedule. I assumed that as an army doctor, you would have…"

"Wait. Are you telling me _you've_ jumped out of a plane?"

"Obviously."

"Right. Of course. Why am I surprised?"

"It's not difficult, John. You'll be fine."

Between them, they manage to get their rucksacks packed, and they settle down for a quietish evening, eating takeaway food and going over as much of the plan as Sherlock is able to divulge. John is quieter, more thoughtful than usual. He goes to bed quite early. Sherlock stays up later, thinking.

*********

**To: AS: John has never parachuted. We need more time for training. SH**

**To: SH: No more time available. Drop some firing range sessions? AS**

**To: AS: I need firing range time. SH**

**To: SH: Watson doesn't. He shoots regularly. Split up. You go to the firing range while he has his jump training. AS**

**To: AS: It won't be enough. SH**

**To: SH: It will have to be. Or drop him from the mission and I'll call someone else in. AS**

**To: AS: He stays on the team. Non-negotiable. I'll think of something.SH**

He switches his phone off and goes to bed.

*********

John wakes feeling extra-warm. Sherlock is big-spooning him.

"You all right?"

"John, do you trust me?"

"Er…"

Sherlock sighs.

"I will rephrase. _Will_ you trust me?"

"Sherlock. Tell me what you're going to do. Just don't go off without telling me, please."

"There won't be enough time for you to learn how to jump confidently…"

"There'll have to be."

"There won't, John. We will have to jump in tandem."

"Sorry? What?"

"We will jump strapped together. I will be in control. You will have to trust me to get us down safely. Can you trust me, John?"

"We'll be together?"

"We'll be together."

John breathes a sigh of relief.

"I trust you."


	5. Play fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Portsmouth to Le Havre ferry  
> Anthea and the boys are on the move.

Anthea pops the boot of the car, hauls out her photographer's bag and a long, rectangular instrument case, narrower than a guitar case. She gestures to Billy and Lestrade to grab their own gear, then shuts the boot. She slides the car keys under the driver's seat and closes the door.

Lestrade raises an eyebrow.

"Don't ask. I'll tell you later."

Anthea leads the way to a pre-booked cabin. They are on the ferry to Le Havre, and it is an overnight crossing. There are four bunks in the not-very-stately room. She is pleased there won't be any arguments about who sleeps where. She would have been prepared to share a bunk, if necessary, but she is happier sleeping alone tonight. 

They dump their gear and go to the ferry's self-service restaurant. They have not had time to stop and eat en-route, traffic had been horrendous, and they are all hungry. After eating some sort of fish and mashed potato pie, the best of the options on offer, they go back to the cabin. 

Lestrade looks around their home for the next few hours. An inside cabin, with no window. Bunk beds. A small ensuite shower and toilet, clean but musty smelling, with rust stains here and there. It feels damp, but he might be imagining that. It certainly isn't warm. The constant throb of the engines is starting to give him a headache. He can think of many better ways of travelling. 

"Okay, Anthea. Tell me why we're on this ferry with its nasty food and smelly cabins, instead of already in France via the nice clean Eurostar, eating proper food in a proper restaurant."

"Easier to dispose of a body by throwing it off a ship into the sea in the dark than by throwing it off a well-lit train in a well-lit tunnel…"

Billy stares. He's not sure if she's joking. 

"Don't worry, Bill. The body wouldn't be yours."

She laughs. 

"We have something to pick up in Le Havre. We'd have to mess around changing trains. This is a better option. Plus, what I said before…"

"Are we being tailed?"

"No. As far as I can tell. But better to be safe…"

"What are we picking up? Don't tell me, classified…"

Lestrade sighs. 

"Better get some sleep. Do you want the top bunk or the bottom, Bill?"

The two men climb into their bunks, Billy taking the top bunk, above Lestrade's. They both keep their jeans and t-shirts on, Anthea notes. She lies down on top of her single bunk. She doesn't undress, apart from removing her coat. Keeps her boots on. She is on full alert. 

Her job is to get herself and Billy Wiggins safely to their destination, with a few detours here and there. Lestrade is an extra layer of concern for her, one she had argued fiercely against bringing along. She has been overruled, she believes, by sentiment on the part of her mission commander. This had surprised her, given the nature of that commander, but she can see that Lestrade will be useful in calming the nervousness of her primary charge. Billy Wiggins's natural state seems to be one of near-panic. She, and Lestrade, will have to keep that under control. 

Anthea lies quietly, reviewing her plans for the next few days. She hears faint noises from the other bunks, little shuffling sounds, quiet sounds of breathing. Eventually, she sleeps. 

A change in the sound of the ferry's engines wakes her. She rolls off the bunk and scrabbles in her bag for her toothbrush and a clean pair of white cotton knickers. The rest of yesterday's clothes will have to do for now. She goes to the ensuite shower, slapping Lestrade's backside lightly as she passes him. He growls. 

"If I'd done that to you, you'd have called it sexual harassment. Play fair."

"Fair and expedient don't always match. Got your attention quickly, didn't it? We've got about forty five minutes before the ramps go down. Better wake your boy up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anthea is a soldier, with an agenda. She doesn't have to be _nice._


	6. Deleted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waterloo to Salisbury train. Later, Stonehenge
> 
> Sherlock and John are on their way to a training camp. The usual shenanigans ensue.

"This is intolerable."

"Sherlock. Be good. It's no one's fault…"

"You can't afford to miss any of your jump training…"

"You said you'd get me down safely…"

"Yes. But you need to be able to cope with the falling sensation…"

"I'd rather not think about that just now, Sherlock, if you don't mind."

Sherlock and John are trapped on a train. Have been trapped on the train for almost four hours. Adverse weather conditions meant the train had been moving at a much slower speed than expected. It has been at a complete standstill now for almost two hours.

"How long can it take to remove a tree from the line?"

"Sherlock. You can't do anything about it, so stop fidgeting and groaning. Go to sleep, or listen to some music…"

Sherlock fidgets and groans some more. John sighs, smiling apologetically at the other passengers in the carriage. Sherlock has been particularly, well, _Sherlocky_ for the last half hour or so. John is fully expecting someone to throw a punch at him very soon. Sherlock bounces out of his seat and stalks off down the carriage. _"Probably going to berate the train guard again"_ John thinks. He settles down to wait for the excitement to start. 

The train lurches. Sherlock flings himself dramatically into his seat, huffing and scowling. 

"We're moving again, Sherlock. Cheer up."

"You do not need to tell me we are _moving_ , John. I am fully aware that we are _moving._ We are not, however, moving quickly enough to salvage any of our training time today. And because we are late, we now have to make our own way to the camp."

"That's annoying. Can't your brother…"

"Don't finish that question, John. We will get a cab. And then spend an evening being bored instead of tired."

John blanches in horror at the mere thought of a bored Sherlock. 

"I know, we could go and look at Stonehenge…"

"What is Stonehenge?"

John gapes. Giggles. 

"You've deleted Stonehenge."

It is a statement, rather than a question. 

"Right. We're going. You'll like it. It's lovely at sunset."

Sherlock lets John take the lead. They are going to look at Stonehenge.

*********

Stonehenge _is_ lovely at sunset. Sherlock stares wonderingly at the standing stones, calculates the circumference of the circle, the angle of the last rays of sunlight to catch the top of the trilithon nearest to where he is standing. He deduces seven likely purposes for the Neolithic stone circle, dismisses three more out of hand. _"Why do archaeologists assume everything is about religion?"_ he thinks.

Sherlock wants to get close to the Sarsen stones. To touch them. The boundary fence gives him no problems at all.

*********

**To: SH: You could at least thank me. GL**

**To: GL: For what, exactly, Gavin? Oh yes. For snitching on me to my brother. SH**

**To: GL: Thanks, Greg. Take no notice of him. He's being a bit princessy. I should have known better than to take him somewhere there are rules. And roped off areas. JW**

**To: JW: No worries John. Had he really deleted Stonehenge? GL**

**To: GL: Yep. He really liked it, you know. I could tell. He just wanted to touch the standing stones. Pity the public are not allowed to.**

**To: JW: Silly bugger. Good start to the mission, getting arrested. GL**

**To: GL: What mission? JW**

**To: JW: Salisbury? Not stupid, John. GL**

**To: GL: Good luck with Colonel Anthea. JW**

**To: SH: Is there something I need to know about Anthea? GL**

**To: GL: Ask Mycroft. You two are on such good terms. SH**

**To: SH: Don't be stroppy, Sherlock. I could hardly come and spring you myself. GL**

**To: GL: John tells me I should apologise and thank you for your intervention, Gary. Colonel Smith is good at her job. She pushes her men hard and herself harder. She has been known to employ some unconventional tactics and she doesn't often choose to explain herself. It can be uncomfortable to work with her. SH**

**To: SH: Right. Sounds horribly familiar. Thanks, I think. Good luck. GL**

**To: GL: Good luck, Greg. SH**


	7. Cafe au lait. No amaretto.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Le Havre
> 
> Anthea, Greg and Billy arrive in France.

Anthea, Billy and Lestrade disembark from the Le Havre ferry as foot passengers. Anthea has no qualms about leaving her car on board. Someone else will deal with it. She leads the way towards the short stay car park. 

Lestrade scans the parking bays. He doesn't really know what he is looking for. Anthea has kept the details of their trip very close to her chest. 

"What are you searching for, Greg?"

"Something that looks as if it might be your style…"

"You have no idea what my 'style' is."

"True. Could be a limo, or a jeep. Or even a bloody helicopter, for all I know. None of those here anyhow. I'm going to get coffee…"

He drops his rucksack at Billy's feet. Sets down his gig bag more carefully, and stalks off towards the coffee stall on the other side of the car park. Anthea scowls and turns to follow him, cannoning into a man who is rushing towards the ferry. The man drops his phone, keys and tickets. Anthea bends to help him pick them up and they crash their heads together. 

"Merde! Pardon, monsieur."

"Désolé, mademoiselle, il était de ma faute…"

Anthea helps the man up, palming the car keys and putting them in her pocket. She turns back to Billy, who is grinning. He hadn't missed the little pantomime. _"I'll need to keep an eye on this one"_ she thinks.

"Let's wait here for Greg. Hope he brings us coffee as well as getting his own."

Lestrade returns with three paper cups. 

"Café au lait. No amaretto. Sorry."

They drink their coffee in silence. Lestrade disposes of the cups, still looking around.

"Best get moving. Come on."

Anthea leads them across the car park to where an orange VW camper van is parked. Lestrade stares as Anthea unlocks the back of the van. Billy climbs in and looks around delightedly. 

"We've got amps…"

"We'll need them for practicing. I'm not playing a gig without rehearsing."

"What gig, Anthea?"

Billy's eyes are shining. He hasn't played a gig for a long time. Hasn't even jammed much recently.

"Open mic stuff. It's our cover…"

"We're a band, Billy. We'll have to arrange some tunes for guitar, bass and…what have you got in that case, Anthea?"

"I'll show you later. Let's get this stuff stowed away. Can you check the cupboards, Greg? See if we've got food?"

Lestrade rattles around. 

"Bread, cheese, salad stuff. There's chamomile tea bags, Bill. That'll keep you happy. Coffee, filters. Couple of bottles of Merlot. Grey Goose vodka. Laphroaig. Someone's splashed out…"

Anthea is watching Billy, who is looking perplexed. 

"Problem, Bill?"

"This is a caravan, right?"

"Yes. Our home for a while."

"Where do we sleep? I can see that sofa bench turns into a bunk, but that's only big enough for one…"

Lestrade laughs. 

"Look up, Billy."

Billy is six foot four. He has had to duck his head to clear the ceiling, and his gaze had been directed downward. He crooks his neck, looks up. 

"Oh."

There is a space below the roof, big enough for, and fitted with, a double mattress. 

Anthea raises an eyebrow at Billy.

"I suppose there's no chance…? No. I didn't think so. I'll sleep down here then."

"You be okay kipping in with me, Billy?"

Lestrade and Billy have been lovers in the past, but that was some time ago. A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since they broke up, painfully. They see each other a lot, are good friends, occasionally spend the night together. Lestrade is still in love with the young scientist, but Billy has been nervous around him lately, seems worried about getting too close.

"I don't know, Greg. I…"

Lestrade smiles, tight-lipped. 

"Maybe you _should_ share the bed with Anthea. You'll probably feel safer."

Billy flushes. Doesn't answer. 

"We need to get going, guys. I'll drive while you two pick out some tunes. We'll need a name for the band, as well."

"Where are we heading for, Anthea?"

Lestrade doesn't like not knowing things. 

"Campsite. It's closed for the winter, but we've got permission to use it. There won't be anyone to complain if we make a noise. It's called 'Le Colombier'. It's about 66 kilometres. Google it if you like. We can jam a bit this afternoon, get used to playing together. It'll be our base for a couple of days. We'll need to go to Paris day after tomorrow, then the following night we'll have our first gig. In Rouen. Place called Le Bateau Ivre."

"First gig? There'll be more?"

"We'll be travelling, once our cover is well-established. Don't ask where our final destination is."

"I know. Classified."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are lots of models of the camper van. This one has the roof that lifts on one side like an accordion. 
> 
> I do not speak French.


	8. Why would you want me to look at the moon?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Army training camp, Salisbury Plain
> 
> Sherlock and John finally arrive at the training camp.

"So this is our home for the next two weeks. Cosy."

John can't tell whether Sherlock is being sarcastic or not. 

They have been allocated a room in the officers' quarters. A very basic room, with two narrow beds, a single radiator and two lockers. The beds are not made up, but there are blankets and sheets in a neat pile at the end of each. There is a small table between the beds and a desk under the window. Hotel-style supplies of coffee and tea are arranged on a tray beside two cups and a kettle. There is a socket that will take one plug. The room is tiny. It is obviously a single room that has had a second bed and locker squeezed into it. 

Sherlock puts his rucksack in the bottom of one of the lockers and flings himself down on one of the beds.

"Sherlock…"

"Yes, John?"

"Probably be best to unpack tonight. It'll be an early start in the morning."

"Hmm"

Sherlock is in his customary hands-steepled thinking position. 

John leaves him to it, while he busies himself unpacking some of his own things and making his bed. He plugs his phone in to charge while he investigates the small ensuite shower room. 

When he comes back into the room, Sherlock has vanished. John's phone has been unplugged from the charger and replaced with Sherlock's. He sighs, searches the room and finds another socket just above the skirting board, under his bed. He rummages in the pockets of his rucksack for the spare charger he has brought for emergencies, plugs it in and sets his phone charging again. 

When Sherlock returns, John is be-pyjamaed and in bed, reading through the training itinerary for the next fortnight. Sherlock gives him a _look_.

"What?"

"Your bed has blankets and sheets on it."

"Er. Yes?"

"Why does your bed have blankets and sheets while mine does not?"

"My bed has blankets and sheets on it because I made my bed, Sherlock. Yours will have blankets and sheets on it when you have made yours."

"It would not have been too difficult for you to make my bed as well."

"It won't be too difficult for you to make it either. I'm not your servant. Where did you get to? If you say "classified", I will punch you."

"I was reconnoitering. I have found the dining room, the gym and the pool. Worked out the most efficient routes to the firing range and the parachute training ground. I found a bar, too. But it is closed."

"There's a map showing all those places in the packs we were given. And it's the mess, not the dining room."

"Ah. Better to see in person, I think. I seem to have mislaid my phone, John. I was going to text you to come outside and look at the moon."

"You left your phone here, Sherlock. Why would you want me to look at the moon?"

John is perplexed. Not an unusual state to be in where Sherlock is concerned. He smiles. 

"You didn't really want me to look at the moon, did you? Did you want company?"

"It's very quiet here. I don't much care for military camps and barbed wire at night."

John knows Sherlock has had bad experiences in military camps with barbed wire fences. He still doesn't know everything that Sherlock has gone through, he thinks he might never know some of it, but he knows it has left scars. Not all of them on Sherlock's body. 

"It'll be louder in the morning. You need to get some sleep, Sherlock. When I said there'll be an early start, I meant early. Breakfast is at six. Training sessions start at seven thirty."

"Barbaric."

"Army."

John smiles. 

"Come on. I'll help you make your bed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The John-and-Sherlock chapters are short, because I am still learning how to write John. He hasn't been a huge presence in my fics so far. I'd rather give you a short chapter I am happy with than a long one that doesn't feel right.
> 
>  
> 
> I have no idea how a real training camp runs.


	9. Triplicity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Le Columbier campsite, Normandy
> 
> The band start being a band. Billy gets a bit confused.

The campsite is quiet and secluded, trees shielding it on all four sides. Anthea drives between the two tall poplars guarding the entrance and parks up. She shakes her shoulders, pops her neck joints, climbs down from the driver's seat and stretches. 

Lestrade and Billy follow, Lestrade climbing into the back of the van to make coffee for himself and Anthea, chamomile tea for Billy. He finds a bottle of amaretto syrup in the fridge, adds a slug to Anthea's coffee. Someone has stocked the van thoughtfully. 

Billy explores the campsite, finds a restaurant and shop, both closed. Two blocky concrete buildings turn out to be a laundry room - coin-operated washing machines, dryers, irons; and a shower and toilet block (clean, but with a few bugs sheltering from the weather). He takes the opportunity to pee. He isn't sure he wants to use the showers. The toilet block is really cold and clammy.

When he gets back to the van, Lestrade and Anthea are chatting about music styles. Anthea opens her instrument case and pulls out an electric violin. 

Lestrade grins

"Sherlock's got something like that. Not quite the same, though…"

"Sherlock's is a Ted Brewer, a Hades. This is a Brazolin Aurora."

Anthea pulls a lead from the case, plugs into one of the amps. She rosins up her bow, and launches into a string of trills and arpeggios, gradually moving her fingers down the neck of the instrument until the notes are painfully high. She moves her fingers back up, further from the body of the violin, turns a tone knob and the instrument groans. Flicks a switch and the violin lights up, LEDs cycling through colours.

Billy shivers. 

"Brilliant. How loud can it go?"

"It's a concert instrument. It can be heard above a full orchestra…"

"Can you play rock music?"

"Try me." She smiles. Toothy and girlish. She stands and swivels on one heel, petticoats swirling, hair flying. "I need more space…"

Lestrade looks at her speculatively.

"You look younger…"

Billy looks anywhere but at Anthea as he mutters

"No makeup. Unstyled hair." He flushes. "She usually wears tight skirts and stilettos. Push-up brassiere…"

Lestrade notices Billy's blush. What's up with him?

Anthea laughs. 

"Oh, you're good, Bill. No wonder Sherlock recommended you…"

"Sherlock recommended him?"

Lestrade is even more determined to find out what this mission is about. He raises an eyebrow at Anthea.

"So, is this the natural you? Is your hard-nosed PA gear a disguise?"

"That would be telling…"

She unplugs her violin, takes it outside. Billy follows, carrying his turquoise Stratocaster. Lestrade shrugs, plugs in three long leads, throws the ends out of the van window. He picks up his bass and goes to join the others. 

Anthea has put down her violin and is stretching, arms, legs, spine. She is still stiff from driving, and from lying awake for most of the previous night on the ferry. She turns to Lestrade. 

"I need to loosen up. We'll have to find a gym, or a dance floor…"

The opening riff of 'Roll Over Beethoven' rings out across the empty campsite. Lestrade laughs, puts down his bass and extends a hand to Anthea. She takes it, and they jive as Billy plays guitar. Lestrade is good at this, spinning and lifting his partner. Anthea isn't quite as good, but knows the steps. At the end of the song, they slump against the van, laughing. 

Billy grins. 

"Let's hear what your violin can do, then."

They run through three or four songs, taking turns to sing. Anthea's voice is husky. It blends well with the two male voices. Lestrade and Billy are used to playing together. Anthea gradually learns how to blend with the guitars, dancing around the two men as she plays, the violin notes swooping above the lead guitar, dipping down to augment the bass. 

"I think this will work. We just need to decide which songs we're going to do. I think we'll need three or four really good ones."

Lestrade has played bass in a punk band. Billy plays lead guitar on and off with a metal band. Neither of those bands has had a girl in frilly petticoats playing a wailing, groaning violin. They will be unusual. Three stringed instruments, three voices. 

Billy looks thoughtful. 

"We need a name."

*********

Dusk falls early in February. By 6.30pm it is too dark to carry on playing. They climb into the van, and Lestrade opens a bottle of Merlot, pouring for all three of them. 

Billy sits noodling lazily on his guitar as Lestrade clatters in the cupboards, rustling up dinner. 

Anthea pulls a pile of frills out of her bag and goes off to use the ironing facilities in the laundry room. She comes back half an hour later, the pile of creased fabrics transformed into beautiful vintage petticoats, cream, faded apple green and a lovely dusty rose. She wears them as dresses, the thinner ones two at a time. 

She travels light. Everything has to fit into her photographer's bag. Petticoats can be scrunched into a small amount of space. Most of the other clothing she carries can be classed as underwear; vests, t-shirts, plain white cotton knickers. There is a thin grey cashmere jumper, a pair of thin cotton pyjama-type trousers and a pair of pale pink leather practice ballet shoes that live in one of the side pockets of her bag. She is wearing one of her petticoats, a white one, and a thick green hand knitted jumper, thin on the elbows, unravelling a little at the hem. 

She sighs, and sips the Merlot that Lestrade poured earlier. Billy puts his guitar away and pulls out his sketch book. He draws from memory. Lestrade and Anthea jiving.

"That's really good, Bill. Do you take commissions?"

"Do you mean for money? No. If I like someone enough I'll give them a sketch. I haven't decided if I like you enough yet. I know I can't trust you…"

Anthea smiles. 

"I don't make too many friends. The job gets in the way. You can trust me to do my very best to get you to our destination in one piece. I can't say more than that."

Lestrade calls them to eat. He has set up a camping table and chairs outside, lit with citronella candles to keep the few winter-hardy insects away. There is good bread and cheese, a dressed salad, fruit, and wonders, a roast chicken that had been in the back of the fridge. He has put the opened wine bottle on the table, and there is sparkling water. 

"You're a magician, Greg. This is wonderful."

Anthea hadn't been expecting more than a cheese sandwich and an apple. 

Lestrade shrugs.

"Food is a basic need. Presentation is important. It's in my blood. My grandpère was a chef."

"Greg's a fantastic cook, Anthea. I was never hungry when we lived together."

Billy smiles at Lestrade, is surprised to see a faint pinkness tinge his ears. 

They eat, talking about music. 

"Triplicity"

"What's that, Billy?"

"We should call the band 'Triplicity'. It means a group of three."

Anthea smiles. 

"Simple. I like it."

"Yeah. Okay."

Lestrade doesn't really mind what they call themselves. He has been in punk bands with very odd names, knows the music is what counts. 

It starts to rain lightly. Anthea and Billy gather up leftovers, plates, glasses. Lestrade folds up and stashes away the table and chairs. They go back inside. Billy washes up while the other two chat. Lestrade manages to find out why they need to go to Paris. They need mics, or their voices will be lost when they perform. Anthea's contact hasn't provided any. Lestrade suspects that Anthea has other errands to run that she is not sharing. 

The rain starts to hammer down in earnest. A wind is picking up. Anthea decides to move the van nearer to the concrete buildings, away from the trees surrounding the site. 

"Don't want to risk one coming down on us."

She jumps down from the van, runs around to the cab. Lestrade and Billy close cupboard doors, hang on to loose objects as Anthea moves the van, wheels slipping in the mud. She is only out in the rain for moments, but when she climbs back in through the rear door, she is soaked through, her petticoat transparent from the hips down, clinging to her legs. Her jumper is soaked, too, and she pulls it off, shaking her hair. Drops of water scatter. The bodice of her petticoat is only damp, but it clings enough to make it obvious that all she is wearing under it is a pair of white cotton knickers and a thigh holster containing a SIG Sauer P226.

Billy blushes hotly and looks away as Anthea grabs her pyjama pants and a t-shirt and shuts herself in the tiny shower cubicle to dry off and change. He sits on the bench seat, resting his sketchbook in his lap. He gulps down half of the glass of wine he has been nursing since dinner, and starts to draw again. 

Lestrade pours himself a glass of the good whisky he'd found earlier. He slugs half of it, leaning against the tiny work top in the 'kitchen' area of the van. He taps the rim of the glass against his teeth, looks thoughtfully at Billy through half-closed eyes. He crosses the van and sits next to Billy, who slams the sketch book shut. 

"You know I'll look for it later. I'll find it, even if you hide it…"

"I know. Bloody detective…"

Billy hands over the book. Lestrade opens it to the unfinished sketch. Anthea, wet petticoat clinging transparently to her. 

"That's a bit…"

"I know. Don't judge me."

Lestrade pages back through the most recent sketches. 

"I like the one of us dancing. You've really caught the movement. You drew this from memory, though…"

"Yeah. I've got a good memory. Used to be eidetic when I was a kid. It's not quite that good now."

"Billy, what's going on? You getting fired up over Anthea?"

"I don't know. I mean, I've never really been this near to a woman for this long. It bothers me a bit. She's not very modest…"

"And you're shy and repressed. You'll get used to it, Billy. She's not doing it on purpose. At least, I don't think she is."

"Does it bother you? I mean, you've been married…"

"No. You bother me though."

"I don't mean to."

Lestrade sighs. 

"I know."

"I'm going to go to bed, Greg. This wine's gone to my head."

"I'll try not to wake you when I come up."

*********

Billy hauls himself up into the sleeping space. The mattress is big enough for two people to share comfortably, and there is headroom, with the roof extension raised. He shuffles as far over as he can. He wants to leave plenty of room for Lestrade. He feels hot and bothered, despite the chill February night. The wine has affected him, and oddly, so has Anthea. 

Lestrade has affected him most of all. Billy loves Lestrade. They had almost married a few years ago, but things went wrong, and Billy left, hurting Lestrade badly. They see each other socially now, and occasionally, not regularly, fall into bed together. They haven't done it for a while, though. _Probably three months,_ Billy thinks. Lestrade had stayed over on the houseboat the night before Anthea turned up, but he had slept on the sofa. 

Billy doesn't understand what his body is doing. He is thirty one, and tonight he has had an erection triggered by looking at a woman for the first time. He blushes as he thinks about it, his penis hardening again. 

The van rocks in the wind, there is a storm on the way. Billy frets a little, pulls the duvet over his head. Hopes there won't be thunder. 

Lestrade and Anthea are arguing, quietly. Lestrade doesn't like what he thinks is happening to Billy. 

"You're bothering him."

"He's a big boy. I'm sure I'm not the first woman he's been attracted to…"

"I think you are. He's led a very lonely life. You're confusing him."

"Jealous, Greg?"

"Irrelevant. Don't lead him on and hurt him."

"I'm not trying to seduce him, Greg. Whatever's bothering him is in his head. And yours. Go to bed. I need to sleep."

When Lestrade climbs up to the sleeping platform, Billy is asleep. He shucks off his jeans and pulls on pyjama trousers. Slides under the duvet, careful not to wake Billy. Billy whimpers quietly. _Dreaming_ , Lestrade thinks. Wind buffets the van, rocking it violently. Thunder rolls, getting closer. There is a sudden sharp ***crack*** outside, as a tree branch comes down. Lestrade lies in the dark. He can barely make out Billy's shape on the other side of the bed. 

Billy whimpers again. In his dream, he hears the sound of gunshots, feels pain in his side as his ribs break. He hears shouting and screaming, more gunshots, as he kneels beside Lestrade, trying to stem arterial blood loss. He hears laughing and shouting as he is held face down on the ground, sees Anthea laughing at him as his jeans are ripped off by the men who are about to rape him. He hears the rolling boom as the meth lab explodes behind him. He screams.

"It's all right, Billy. It's all right. It's the storm. You're safe, love. You're safe…"

Lestrade hugs Billy tight. Holds his arms to stop him flailing and hurting himself. 

Anthea calls up to the sleeping platform. 

"Greg, what's happening?"

"Nightmare. Thunder triggers him. He'll be okay."

"You're sure? Need me to get anything?"

"No. Thanks. Go back to bed."

Lestrade strokes Billy's hair, neck, shoulders. Whispers soothing noises. Billy fights to get his arms free, grabs Lestrade's t-shirt in both fists, buries his face in his chest. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

"It's all right, Billy. It's just the storm…"

Billy's breathing slows, although he winces at every hiss of lightning, every clap of thunder. He is wet with sweat, shivering as he cools down. 

"It was a bad one, wasn't it? Do you want to talk?"

"It was everything. Getting shot, you getting cut, the meth lab. The men…"

Billy cries

"Greg, I'm so sorry. If it hadn't been for me you wouldn't have got hurt…"

"Hey now. None of that…none of that was your fault."

Lestrade kisses Billy's ear, holds him tight until the storm begins to blow itself out. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to bash their heads together. But hey, narrative imperative.
> 
> Billy has recurring nightmares. So they recur in fics about him. 
> 
>  
> 
> The tune Anthea and Greg dance to:
> 
> Chuck Berry: Roll Over Beethoven: <http://youtu.be/jLD5H4uQ1xs>


	10. They would have to face my wrath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Army training camp, Salisbury Plain
> 
> John has a bit of a worry.

"Stop panicking, John. Breathe."

"Would have been better just to shove me out of the damn plane without any training."

John is not happy. Not happy at all. He has had a full day's "ground training", and now knows everything that could possibly go wrong with a parachute jump. 

"You need to have an awareness of some things, John. The importance of keeping your eyes open, for example. Landing techniques…"

"I'm exhausted. I've had to take a written exam…"

"Which you passed. I don't see the problem…"

"They are going to take me up to four thousand feet tomorrow. And I'm going to have to jump out of the plane. Otherwise they won't sign me off. I need a certificate, apparently. And it _still_ won't be enough training for me to jump on my own when we get to where we're going. Why do I have to do this, Sherlock? You told me we'd be tandem jumping."

"We will be, John. But in the admittedly unlikely event that I am incapacitated, you will need to land us. And it will be better for the mission if the sensation of jumping is familiar to you."

"I know, Sherlock. But let me be pissed off about it, please."

John pinches the bridge of his nose, takes several deep breaths, sets his shoulders. 

"Right. I'm going to have a shower, then go and eat. Will you be joining me?"

"In the shower, John? If you really want me to. Although I have only just got my hair dry."

"I meant in the mess, for dinner, and you know it. Git."

He laughs.

Sherlock smiles. He won't admit it, but he hates it when John is upset. He has got used to not sharing a flat now, but he treasures the time that they spend together even more than when the doctor was a constant presence in his life. He expects that the next few weeks will provide many opportunities for John to be upset. He had, briefly, considered not taking him along, but knows that would have been even worse.

John reappears, refreshed and a little more relaxed. They go to dinner together. 

The food is wonderful. John chooses tuna carpaccio with wasabi mayonnaise for a starter. Sherlock doesn't order a starter, but eats half of John's. Sherlock wants to skip the main course and go straight to pudding. John sidesteps him by asking for the cheeseboard to be served at the same time as his main course of grilled lemon sole. 

"Fish for starter _and_ main?"

"Why is that a problem? I like fish. "

"It isn't a problem. I just thought you might prefer a little more variety."

"You mean _you_ would prefer a little more variety. Eat your cheese, Sherlock."

John finishes with dark chocolate torte, served with kirsch-soaked cherries and two forks. Sherlock eats most of it. 

After dinner they go out to look at the moon.

*********

John lies awake, worrying. He is trying to keep his mind off tomorrow's jump, but failing miserably. 

Since Sherlock's 'death leap', he has developed an irrational fear of heights. 

He suffered through 'falling' dreams frequently in the months after what he now thinks of as "the performance". As he began to rebuild his own life, they happened less often, only to start up again, irrationally, when Sherlock returned. Since Sherlock's call to join him on the mission they have been back with a vengeance, along with his old post-Afghanistan nightmares. He dreams of Sherlock falling, Sherlock bleeding, Sherlock dying. Now he dreams of himself falling, bleeding, dying as well. 

He looks across the gap between the beds. Sherlock is sleeping fitfully. He is dreaming, too. John wonders what about. 

He thinks back to three days ago. Sherlock had called him, excitedly. Tempted him with _'Could be dangerous…',_ and he had come running. 

Sherlock has been mysterious, childish, sulky, arrogant, cycling through the states in his usual way, ever since. He has been unusually jittery, too, unusually concerned that John should know he won't leave him behind.

He has tried to be funny, sexy, romantic. John's heart wants to break, thinking of how hard Sherlock is trying to keep him from worrying. 

There have been the usual ridiculous shenanigans, of course. Devised to take his mind off the mission, he realises. Sherlock had even gone so far as to get himself arrested, before even starting the training. 

_And since when did Sherlock need training for a mission?_.

John could slap himself. The training isn't for Sherlock's benefit. It is for him. A refresher course, obviously. But a way of letting him know that Sherlock can look after him. And himself. He will have _proof_ that he can. He will have been _trained_.

"Idiot"

Sherlock stirs

"John? Why are you awake?"

"Worrying about tomorrow. Bit scared."

Sherlock slides out of his bed, slides into John's. Wraps his arms and legs around him, holding tight.

"It will be fine, John. They won't dare to let anything happen to you."

"They won't dare, eh?"

"They would have to face my wrath…"

John chuckles. 

"Right then. They won't dare. If they know what's good for them."


	11. Jump

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Army training camp, Salisbury Plain
> 
> John jumps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter. What it says on the tin.

Sherlock growls with frustration. He is facing his tenth target, and so far has not managed to centre a single shot on the bullseye. He takes aim again, empties the clip. Still no centre-shot. He gives up. He checks his watch. John will be jumping soon. He hands back the weapon and ear-defenders. 

"Same time tomorrow, sir?"

The sergeant in charge of the firing range smiles cheerfully. 

"Sadly, yes."

The sergeant looks as if she might want to chat. Sherlock forestalls her by picking up his coat and turning to leave. He has ten minutes to get to where he needs to be. He runs. 

John is in an aeroplane at four thousand feet. He is about to step out of the door into nothing. He is terrified. 

"All right sir?"

"Er, no?"

John's sergeant is not as pretty as Sherlock's, and is all business. 

"The 'chute will open automatically on the static line, sir. All you have to do is keep an eye on your landing spot, and remember to bend your knees when you touch down."

The sergeant checks the various straps and buckles, closes John's visor and steers him to the open door. 

John steps out and falls. 

And falls.

And falls.

And is jerked upward as his parachute opens. He remembers to breathe, remembers to look down, rather than up, fighting the desire to check with his own eyes that the parachute canopy is there above him. 

The ground rushes toward him at a terrifying speed. He hits, bends his knees and rolls. He stays down, pulling the lines in toward him. The ground crew snap buckles open, get him out of the harness and help him to his feet. He tests his ankles and knees carefully. No damage. He grins. 

Sherlock grins back at him from the other side of the landing field. They walk toward each other, smiling. They don't hug, not in front of the ground crew, but Sherlock wants to. 

"How was it?"

"Terrifying. I don't ever want to do that again."

"It was quite an elegant landing."

"Still don't want to do it again."

"John…"

"Yes Sherlock. I know I have to. But you promised…"

"It will be a tandem jump, John. But you should probably have at least one more practice…"

"No. I'll do it when I have to. But no more practice jumps, please."

"All right. Let's go and collect your certificate."

They walk back towards the camp buildings. John's phone pings. It is a video clip from Sherlock. 

"You filmed me."

"Yes. I thought you would like a memento."

John looks at the video. 

"I don't look like a complete amateur…"

"It was a good jump, John. Neat landing."

They collect John's certificate. When he gets back to their room, he puts it away carefully in his rucksack. 

**To: JW: Nice one, mate. Rather you than me. GL**

**To: GL: Thanks. Don't want to do it again in a hurry. JW**

"You sent the video to Greg."

"Yes. It was an achievement that deserves to be celebrated. Don't worry. Our phones are secure. Just don't put it on your blog until after the mission has ended."

"Okay. Sherlock, why did you come to the landing field?"

"I wanted to be there."

"Did you think something might go wrong?"

"No. I told you, they wouldn't dare let anything happen to you."


	12. Check the label

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Le Colombier campsite, Normandy
> 
> Anthea has business to conduct.

The morning is bright and chilly. Billy decides he will use the campsite's showers after all. And the toilets. He needs a bit of space. The camper van is too small, he can't breathe. He showers, takes care of other business, goes back to the van, feeling a bit better. 

Anthea has made chamomile tea for Billy, and coffee for herself and Lestrade, who is sitting on the tailgate drinking his. Anthea pushes past him, jumps down to the grass, walks a little way from the van and takes up a stance that looks vaguely familiar to Billy. She is wearing pyjama trousers and a long-sleeved t-shirt, ballet shoes on her feet. 

She begins to move, slowly at first, as she performs the Yang-style long Tai Chi form. Lestrade and Billy watch. 

"What is she doing?"

Billy stares as she drops into the 'snake creeps down through grass' stance, both arms and one leg fully extended, backside inches from the ground. 

"Working out."

She completes the form, begins again, and Lestrade is ready, standing almost within fingertip touching distance, shadowing her movements. Billy climbs quickly into the van, grabs his sketchbook, sits on the tailgate, his pencil flying across the page as they run through the form a third time, faster. Anthea's movements are more exaggerated than Lestrade's. Her limbs are a little more extended, her dips a little lower. They bow to each other as they finish. They are both breathing heavily. 

"Wouldn't have thought Tai Chi was your style, Greg."

"I do it for flexibility. You do it like a martial art."

"Well, it is one."

"With swords, maybe…"

"I prefer fans. You can take a man's head off with an open fan. Punch his heart out through his chest with a closed one…"

Lestrade laughs out loud. 

"There speaks an assassin."

Anthea grins and goes inside to change. Lestrade gives Billy a long look. 

"Okay this morning?"

"Yeah. Sorry for disturbing you last night."

"Not your fault. It's fine, Billy. I've cuddled you through nightmares before…"

"Things were different then."

"Yeah. I know. Look, Billy, if you want to change the sleeping arrangements…"

"No! No, I don't want to. I'd rather share a bed with you than with her. I trust you."

"You don't trust her?"

"I don't trust me. And she terrifies me. I don't understand what's happening, Greg."

"Have you ever had _anything_ to do with a woman before Billy?"

Billy blushes, whispers

"No. But I got turned on last night. That's never happened before. I'm gay, Greg. You know that better than anyone. I _am_ gay. I _like_ men. I love _you…_ "

Lestrade shivers 

"It hasn't seemed that way, lately…" 

"We haven't had sex for a long time Greg, have we?" 

"I know. I thought you'd stopped fancying me." 

"Never. I'll never go off you. That's why I don't understand this Anthea thing." 

"I don't either. But remember, I thought I was straight. I was married…" 

Billy laughs 

"I don't think I'm turning straight, Greg." 

"Maybe you're bisexual, and you just haven't realised it." 

"I don't think so. And why would I fancy her now? I've known her for years and never fancied her before." 

"I don't know, Billy. I've no answers for you." 

*********

"What do you guys want to do today?" 

Anthea wants to go to a local flea market. She loves poking around on market stalls, sometimes, not always, buying vintage clothing, jewellery, shoes. And she has someone she needs to see. 

Lestrade doesn't mind what he does, as long as he can do it with Billy. 

"We'll need to stock up on food. Other than that, I'll go along with whatever you two decide." 

Billy smiles 

"Food market first, then flea market. But we'll need to practice our songs as well…" 

Anthea nods 

"Yes. There should be time for all three, if we start now. I'll drive." 

Lestrade takes charge in the farmers' market. 

"We need things that won't go off quickly if we lose power to the fridge. Cheese, fruit, salad stuff. Charcuterie. Bread. Some more wine would be good. Anthea, have you got an expense account? Or are we paying for everything ourselves?" 

"Food and drink can go on expenses. Personal purchases come out of our own pockets. Don't worry about electricity. We've got solar panels." 

They load up the van with food and drink. Anthea buys a bottle of cassis, which she loves, paying for it herself. 

At the flea market, they rummage through the stalls. Anthea finds a beautiful purple taffeta petticoat with only a few tiny moth holes, and a thick yellow hand-knitted jumper. Her green one is still damp, and the thin grey one she is wearing is not very warm. She will just about have room for them in her bag. 

"Good colour, that mauve. It'll suit you." 

"More violet than mauve, I think. Have you got anything else for me?" 

The stall-holder nods. 

"I'll just put these in a bag. Check the petticoat label carefully. These old clothes have some interesting care instructions." 

Anthea pays for the clothes. The petticoat is very expensive. She leaves the stall and goes to look for her men. 

Billy and Lestrade are in the next row of stalls. Billy has found a stack of vintage French underwear. Tricôt jersey knee length pants, off-white, and long-sleeved button vests. He buys cards of glass and mother-of pearl buttons on a haberdashery stall, and lace in several colours. He adds sewing needles and thread. On another stall, he finds a box of loose buttons, and sorts through them, finding a dozen matching real jet ones. He is delighted with his purchases. So is Lestrade. He loves Billy in lace. Hasn't seen him wearing it much lately. 

Lestrade buys a couple of original Breton striped sailor shirts and a canvas duffel bag. He and Billy will need extra space for packing their new clothes. 

They find a bistro and have lunch. Steak frîtes and tarte tatin. By two o'clock, they are back at the campsite, ready to rehearse their songs. 

They end up with four they are happy with. Different styles to give each of them the chance to sing, the chance to show off their playing skills. Lestrade and Billy feel confident that the gig in Rouen will go well. Anthea trusts their musical judgement and does some breathing exercises. 

Billy goes to bed early. His belly feels bloated and tight. _"Too many frîtes"_ , he thinks. Anthea fills the kettle again, ready for morning coffee and chamomile tea. Lestrade stays up talking to her for a while, still trying to find out what their mission is. He knows that anything instigated by Mycroft Holmes is not going to be straightforward. Mycroft likes to play games, and Lestrade has been at the sharp end of some of those games before. Anthea still isn't telling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tai Chi fans are big things, and they make a lot of noise when they are snapped open and shut. Originally, they were made with metal ribs, like blades. 
> 
> Anthea's agenda is starting to show…


	13. Outclassed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salisbury Plain
> 
> John and Sherlock have a physical fitness assessment.

**One mile run: Class A1: 8 minutes**

Sherlock lopes along, breathing easily. John has to work a bit harder. He is not unfit, but his knee is hurting a bit. His legs are shorter than Sherlock's. He has to take more steps to cover the distance. He completes the run a bit outside of the average time for an army-fit man. 

"8 minutes 31"

Sherlock has kept an eye on their time throughout the run. He has finished his run in 8 minutes 30 seconds. John knows Sherlock could have run faster. 

"Why did you run slower than you needed to?"

"I need to adjust to your pace, John. We will be running together, if we run at all. I could run faster alone, of course, but that is irrelevant, as I do not intend to be running alone."

John smiles. He is glad that Sherlock is taking his physical failings into account. Too often, he has ended up trailing behind the consulting detective, sometimes losing his trail completely. 

**Sprint running. One mile. Run 30s, walk 60s :Class A1: 15 minutes**

They complete the distance together again. Sherlock keeps the time, his phone beeping to remind them to change pace. 

"Are you allowed to have your phone with you?"

Sherlock gives John a _look_.

"I'm not in the _army_ , John. Why _wouldn't_ I have my phone with me?"

Sherlock uses the quarter hour or so of running time to have a text conversation with Anthea about martial arts. 

**Push-ups:Class A1: Minimum 13**

John does twenty push-ups, straight body; hands and toes. Sherlock does twenty as well. Irritatingly, Sherlock does his with only one foot touching the ground. 

**Pull-ups: Class A1: Minimum 8**

Sherlock exercises his veto. They do not do pull-ups. 

"Sherlock?"

"Your shoulder, John. There is no point at all in injuring you during training. The push-ups have already put stress on the joint."

"Right. Thanks."

**Lunges: Class A1: 10 sets**

"Sherlock. Are you taking pictures of my arse?"

"Why would I want photographs of your arse, John?"

"I have no idea. Are you?"

"Yes."

**Sit-ups: Class A1: Minimum 17**

Sherlock easily completes twenty sit-ups, could probably do more. John squats in front of him holding his ankles to the ground. John also completes twenty, although it is harder for him as Sherlock's long body looms over him, head almost in his lap. 

 

At the end of the physical fitness assessment, John is red-faced, sweaty and, he thinks, reeking. Sherlock is prettily flushed. 

Sherlock has been thoughtful and attentive to John's needs all day, whilst still managing to out-class him in everything. 

John hates Sherlock sometimes.


	14. Fight! Fight! Fight!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paris
> 
> Anthea and Billy are attacked. Lestrade is useful in a fight, but Billy is better at first aid.

"That was really good, Greg. How did you know about this place?"

They are in a Paris bistro, drinking good coffee after eating very good moules. 

Anthea has been off doing something outside of Lestrade's clearance level. He and Billy have collected mics and stands from a music store on the Rue Dufrenoy, and they have all met up for lunch.

"We found it when we were here a few years back. Billy likes mussels…"

"Greg likes watching me eat mussels." Billy laughs. "Where to now, Anthea?"

"Back to the van, I suppose. We probably ought to run through the songs again so we're ready for tomorrow."

They have left the van in the car park at Gare du Nord, used the metro to get around. It is impossible to park on the streets of Paris. 

They start walking back to the metro station, Lestrade a few paces ahead, carrying the long thin parcel of mic stands. Anthea and Billy chat about the arrangement for one of the songs as they follow. 

The attack comes out of nowhere. Three men charge out of a side street, cutting between Lestrade and the others. Two of them cannon into Billy, one grabbing his despatch bag. 

Anthea spins into action, feet flying, sweeping the legs out from under them both, grabbing Billy's bag and throwing it back to him. The third man punches her in the ribs and she goes down as Lestrade steps in, swinging the wrapped up mic stands like a quarter staff, catching the attacker in his belly. The attacker turns to take on Lestrade, who fells him with a punch to the side of his head. He stays down.

Anthea speed dials her contact. 

"Lestrade needs préfecture backup, NOW."

The other two attackers try to get up and Anthea kicks out again, from the ground, cracking the knee of one of them audibly. Billy takes on the other one, rams the point of his elbow into the man's throat. Both men go down again. 

Passers-by start to gather, not helping, calling out insults and encouragement as the fight goes on, hindering escape for both sets of fighters. Two patrolling flics take one look at the scene and grab and cuff Billy. Lestrade and Anthea yell in French. Anthea kicks again at one of the downed men who is trying to get to his feet. The flics move to grab her. She evades them, twisting away, non-aggressively. Lestrade has his hands above his head, warrant card in one hand, as he desperately tries to get the French officers to listen. 

"Police! Je suis un policier! Laissez-le aller! Ces trois sont les agresseurs!"

A car pulls into the kerb beside the fracas. Non-uniformed officers step out, one of them shouting to the flics.

"Ça va. Nous prenons en charge maintenant. Laisser le jeune homme va. Les trois sur le terrain sont les méchants."

One uniformed officer uncuffs Billy, muttering something. Billy doesn't understand what he's saying, isn't sure it has the tone of an apology. 

The senior-looking officer of the préfecture turns to Lestrade.

"Vous êtes inspecteur en chef Lestrade? Je suis Capitaine Gautier. Toutes mes excuses pour l'erreur de mes collègues. Nous allons faire face à vos assaillants. Vous et vos amis êtes libre de partir."

Lestrade shakes hands with the French police captain, exchanges telephone numbers, assures him that he will make himself and his colleagues available to make statements, should they be needed. Thinks to himself that it is unlikely that statements will be needed if Mycroft Holmes is involved. 

He turns to Anthea and Billy.

"All right?"

They both nod.

"Let's go then. We need to get back to the van quickly, in case these guys have friends in the neighbourhood."

They make their way quickly to the metro, alight running from the train at Gare du Nord. Anthea's side aches where the attacker punched her, and she presses her hand against her ribs all the way back to the van. She lets Lestrade drive.

As soon as they are back at the campsite, Anthea climbs into the back of the van and squeezes herself into the tiny shower cubicle. She needs to check her ribs for damage. She drops her coat on the floor and swears as she sees her blood-soaked petticoat. She cracks the door and calls out to the two men, asking for a t-shirt. Lestrade rummages through her bag, but Billy is quicker, handing her one of the new grandad vests he had bought the previous day. 

Anthea wipes the blood from her side, using her petticoat. She can't ruin it any more than it is already ruined. Blood continues to ooze from the wound. It will need to be glued, at least. She opens the door and comes out of the shower, hand pressed tightly to the wound. 

"Okay? You look a bit pale…"

Lestrade registers that Anthea is wearing only Billy's vest and her knickers. Belatedly registers the redness spreading out from under her hand.

"Fuck's sake, Anthea. Let me see that."

He helps her to sit on the bench, pushes her hand aside and pulls up the hem of the vest. The wound is about six inches long. Deep at one end, tapering to a shallow slice. Blood flows steadily but slowly. 

"I didn't see a knife…You've been nursing that all the way back? We need to get you to hospital…"

"Punching knife. Short blade, between the fingers. Hard to spot. Lucky he didn't get me straight-on. No hospital. First aid kit in my bag. Surgical glue. You'll need to do it, Greg. Antiseptic first."

She lies down on the bench seat. 

"Bill, I'll need to hold on to something…"

Billy scrambles up on to the bench behind Anthea's head, puts a hand on each of her shoulders. She groans and grabs his forearms, holding on tight as Lestrade swabs the wound clean. She gives a little scream as he pours antiseptic liquid directly into the deepest part of the wound. She pants around her words as she directs Lestrade to glue the sides of the wound together. 

"It's not going to hold, Anthea. It needs stitching."

"There are threaded needles in the kit. They're sterile…"

"I'm sorry, Anthea. I can't…"

Lestrade can't bear needles. Hates having injections. Hates having stitches himself. The thought of actually sticking a needle into someone's flesh turns his stomach.

"I'll do it. Needles don't bother me."

Billy and Lestrade change places.

"Hold her still, Greg. This will hurt."

Anthea groans and tries to twist away as Billy makes the first stitch. He estimates she will need five more. He climbs up on to the bench seat with her, sits astride her legs, his weight on her thighs to stop her moving. He places a second stitch, quickly and deftly. Anthea's nails dig into Lestrade's forearms and she sobs. _That will bruise,_ Billy thinks, glancing at the matching set of crescent shaped marks on his own arms. 

Billy continues to stitch the wound, working carefully, trying not to create any puckering of the skin. Anthea won't thank him if he leaves an ugly scar. By the time he has finished, Anthea is sweat-soaked and has fallen into a faint. Billy covers the wound with a loose bandage to keep it clean, and leaves Lestrade to settle her more comfortably. He had been horribly, inappropriately, conscious of Anthea's thighs between his own, of the soft skin of her abdomen as he stitched her. He needs to get outside, get some air.

*********

Lestrade is driving. They are on their way to Rouen, a day early. 

Billy is in the front of the van with Lestrade, trying to lighten his mood. Every so often, he looks over his shoulder into the back of the van, where Anthea is having a heated conversation with somebody. 

"He came straight at me. Didn't even notice Lestrade, until he hit him. He had a punching knife. He meant business…"

The person on the other end of the phone interrupts her. She listens, responds.

"No. I don't think he was after Dr Wiggins. It would have been easy to…wait, the uniforms cuffed Bill first. It seemed a bit odd that they would go for him when Lestrade and I were doing more damage. It was only your préfecture guys that made them let him go. You'll need to get on to your people. Check those flics out."

Once again, she listens to the voice at the other end of the phone line. 

"We're on the move. Lestrade's being insubordinate. He refuses to stay here another night. We'll have a night in Rouen that I hadn't planned for."

Her contact is obviously questioning something. She replies testily.

"Yes of course we're going ahead with the gig. It's just a scratch. I'll be fine. Dr Wiggins will be fine. Lestrade has proved his usefulness. You win on that count. Stop worrying."

She hangs up the phone and settles down in the corner of the bench seat. After a while, she closes her eyes. 

Billy worries. He caught part of Anthea's side of the conversation. Was she saying she thought someone was after him? Or not? Why would anyone be after him? He doesn't have a project on the go, and his last one was a government contract. Who are the bad guys, anyway? Who stabbed Anthea?

Lestrade carries on driving. He is furious. Angry at Anthea for keeping secrets. Angry at her for putting Billy in danger. Angry at Mycroft Holmes for putting him under Anthea's command. He shows his anger by taking what action he can. At least he can get them all away from the place they've been staying. He can make sure they are long gone before anyone traces them to the campsite. He drives. 

By the time they get to Rouen, Anthea has done an online search and found them a new camp site. It is near the bar where they will play a gig the following night. Lestrade parks up, and checks that Anthea is okay. She is a little stiff, a lot sore, and tired. Lestrade makes her eat, and settles her down for the night.

*********

Lestrade and Billy are still wide awake. They have gone to bed, so as not to disturb Anthea with their quiet conversation. 

"What do you know about this mission, Greg? Who was that bloke? Why does Anthea think someone's after me?"

"I don't know much at all, Billy. There's a research team working on something medical. Mycroft is in overall charge. You've been recommended to take charge of the research. By Sherlock, no less. You heard her say it would be up to you to decide when the third phase of the mission is complete…"

"Yeah. It sounds practical, rather than theoretical. I don't like the idea of going in blind though. I need to see the hypothesis, the paradigm, the background work. Look at the relevant literature. Why's it so hush-hush?"

"It's Mycroft's way. I'm interested in phase two. That must be what Sherlock and John are working on. Billy, Anthea says I'm only needed for the first phase. I'll be going back to London without you…"

"I know. I don't like the idea of being away from you again, Greg. Promise me you'll phone me? Text me?"

"I promise. I want you to promise me something, too. I want you to promise you will keep me in the loop as much as you can. I need to be able to trust that you're telling me everything you can. I know there will be things you probably can't tell me, but please don't hold things back just because you think I might get upset. I'll get more upset if you keep secrets you don't have to."

"I'll tell you whatever I can."

Lestrade lies on his back, looking at the stars through the window in the roof extension. Billy shuffles across the bed and snuggles up to him. 

Lestrade smiles.

"Want a cuddle?"

"Yeah. Please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably don't need to remind you that I don't speak French…


	15. Pillow Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salisbury Plain
> 
> Sherlock and John talk about feelings. Mycroft has bad timing.

John is asleep, cuddling his pillow. Sherlock watches him for a while, a half-smile on his lips. He wishes he could climb into the narrow bed with him, but there isn't an excuse he can employ. John isn't unhappy tonight. The day of training has gone well. He isn't scared. He has made his parachute jump successfully. He isn't having a nightmare. There is no reason for Sherlock to climb into bed and hold him in his arms. 

Sherlock's acquaintances think that he and John are a couple. That they were a couple before Sherlock jumped from the roof of St Bartholomew's Hospital. That they have been together since his return, despite John's problematic marriage. His brother and a very few friends, _well, Lestrade, really, and probably Billy Wiggins, who is too sharp for his own good sometimes,_ know that they are not. Lestrade would call them _"Friends with benefits"_. Sherlock loathes the description. 

He shrugs his coat on over his pyjamas, slips his shoes on and quietly leaves the room. He needs a cigarette, and will have to go outside. There is a strictly-enforced no-smoking rule in the officers' quarters. He won't flout it. This training course is important.

*********

"Why are you out here in your pyjamas?"

"Looking at the moon?"

"It's cloudy. Storm on the way, maybe. You can't see the moon."

"I needed to think. That room is too small to think in."

"You've been smoking again. I wish you wouldn't."

"I can't seem to give up nicotine, John. We are unlikely to be able to find patches where we are going, and I can't spare the space for them in my rucksack. Cigarettes, tobacco are easier to get hold of."

"Couldn't you sleep?"

"No. I've been thinking about our mission. It will be difficult, John…"

"You're not going without me, Sherlock."

"No. I won't go without you."

They stand quietly, arms touching. Sherlock smokes another cigarette. 

"You never talk about her."

"Who?"

"Mary."

"No. I don't. Why are you bringing her up now?"

"Do you think about her?"

"Sometimes. I married her…"

"Do you still love her?"

"No. She shot you. Why did she do that, Sherlock?"

"I don't know. Mycroft might. He hasn't told me, if he does know. I haven't been able to think of a good reason. It might just have been an error on her part…"

"I don't want to talk about her."

"I'm sorry, John."

"I'm going back to bed. Don't stay out here too long. You'll freeze."

*********

John wakes up before dawn. He looks across to Sherlock's bed. Sherlock is in it, curled in a ball, facing away from him. He sighs, quietly. Something is a bit "off". Sherlock isn't quite himself. John gets out of his bed, pads across to Sherlock's. 

"Move over. I know you're awake."

Sherlock moves to make room. John squeezes into the space, chest against Sherlock's back. He pulls the blankets up over them. 

"Why did you ask if I still love her? Do you think that if I did I wouldn't be able to love you as well?"

"Could you love me, John?"

"I would have thought that by now you'd know I do."

Sherlock shudders. Closes himself into an even tighter ball. 

"You mean platonic love, don't you? _Brotherly_ Love. Love that _good friends_ have for each other…"

"Now you're getting sneery. Well done."

He wraps his arms around him, holds him tightly. 

"You want it to mean more."

"Yes."

"So do I."

"I don't know how to be someone you can love, John."

"Just be you."

*********

Sherlock's phone buzzes. One long buzz, two short. Repeats. John groans.

"Do you have to answer it now?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, John. Mycroft has never had the most brilliant timing, but it is the 'urgent' code."

He fishes the phone out from under his pillow. 

"Holmes"

_"There has been an incident, Sherlock. I am calling to warn you to be on your guard."_

Sherlock presses a sequence of keys that will patch John's phone into the call, gestures at him to pick up his phone and listen in. 

"What happened?"

_"Colonel Smith was attacked by a knifeman. We believe there was also a clumsy attempt to abduct Dr Wiggins."_

"Data, Mycroft…"

_"They were in Paris. Three men tried to mug them. It did not appear to be more than that at first. Obviously, Anthea fought back. She was taken down by one of the men. Two other men dressed as policemen on foot patrol seized and handcuffed Dr Wiggins."_

"Is Billy okay? And Anthea, of course? What about Greg?"

_"They are all safe, Dr Watson. DCI Lestrade was magnificent, according to Dr Wiggins. Apparently he felled Anthea's assailant with a single punch. Anthea had called for préfecture backup immediately, of course, and Dr Wiggins was released. They had not had time to remove him from the scene. We have all five men in custody."_

"You said a knifeman, Mycroft."

_"Yes, Sherlock. It seems they did not realise Anthea had been stabbed until they got back to their campsite."_

"Sorry, Mycroft. How could she not know she'd been stabbed?"

_"It was a punching knife, John. She thought it was a particularly vicious and painful blow to the ribs. It has not incapacitated her. Gregor and Bill gave her first aid."_

"How did they know to grab Billy, Mycroft? Was Lestrade attacked, too?"

_"According to Anthea, the gang ignored Gregor. Until he involved himself."_

"Interesting. Lestrade was a late addition to the team…"

_"Yes, Sherlock. I had to override some protests to have him included. I believe I am vindicated. Whether _you_ are remains to be seen. Dr Wiggins would not have joined us without him, in any case."_

"You will let us know what you learn from the five men?"

_"Of course. Take care, Sherlock. Goodnight, Dr Watson."_

*********

**To:GL: Are you all right Greg. And Bill? JW ******

******To:JW: Mycroft told you? We're fine. He's a bit miffed that someone tried to kidnap him again and Anthea won't tell him why. GL** ** **

******To:GL: How badly was she hurt? JW** ** **

******To:JW: Slice across the ribs. Bit deeper one end. No major damage. Lucky she was spinning as he punched, or it could have been a lot worse. Billy stitched her up. I don't like needles. They don't seem to bother him. GL** ** **

******To:GL: Please be careful Greg. SH** ** **

******To:SH: Thank you, Sherlock. I didn't know you cared. GL** ** **

******To:GL: John told me to tell you that. Gustav. SH** ** **


	16. More knives than shoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rouen
> 
> Triplicity get ready to move on

Anthea pulls her gear out of the various places it has been stowed, empties her photographer's bag onto the bench seat. Takes an inventory as she repacks carefully. 

Four petticoats. She sets aside the new one. She will wear that onstage tonight. She has removed and destroyed the label after memorising the information on it. 

She will wear the green jumper as well. She rolls up the other petticoats small, sighing. There had been no point in ironing them after all. The one she had been wearing in Paris is heavily bloodstained. She isn't sure if it is salvageable, but they are hard to get hold of, and really useful when she needs to change personas. She crumples it into a small ball and wedges it into her bag. She remembers her toiletries are in the shower room, goes to collect them. As she steps out, she sees Lestrade leaning against the kitchen counter. 

"Packing?"

"Yes. We need to ditch the van. I've booked rooms in a guest house near the bar for tonight."

Lestrade nods.

"I'll let you finish up, then get my stuff squared away."

He looks curiously at Anthea's pile of belongings. Three t-shirts, six pairs of white cotton knickers. Toothpaste. Prescription pill bottle. Small first aid kit. Sewing kit. Shower gel, decanted into a plain travel bottle. He picks up the shower gel, undoes the cap, sniffs. Puts it back. Reaches for the pill bottle. Anthea gets there first, grabbing it and stashing it in the bottom of her bag. 

She piles her underwear into the bag. Follows it with the toiletries, toothbrush, hairbrush. The pile is growing smaller. Boots she will wear. Ballet shoes get folded and stowed in a pocket of her bag. She checks her weapons. Small, all-purpose knife, good for close quarters fighting. Slightly larger throwing knife. Swiss Army knife. Punching knife she had taken from her assailant. 

"First woman I've ever known with more knives than shoes…"

Anthea snorts.

"Known many intimately enough to count their shoes?"

Lestrade's eyes darken dangerously.

"Mother, sisters, sergeant, ex-wife…"

Anthea flushes. 

"Sorry. That was uncalled-for."

"Yeah. I'll make allowances for you being injured in action."

Anthea packs away her SIG Sauer P226, holster, spare rounds. Goes to the fridge and pulls out the bottle of cassis she hasn't opened yet, wraps it in her grey jumper. 

"I'd take the vodka if I had room…"

"It'll fit in mine, if Greg lets me put my leads in his duffle bag…"

Billy is standing in the doorway, watching them.

"I packed earlier on. Thought we might be moving on. Will we be taking the amps with us?"

"Yes. We need to take everything to the gig tonight. We won't be coming back to the camper."

Anthea finishes packing. There is just about room for the t-shirt and pyjama pants she is wearing. 

"Can one of you check my stitches please? And I'll need some strapping round my ribs."

"I'll do it."

Lestrade motions Anthea towards the front of the camper, where the light is better. Billy takes the hint and steps outside for a cigarette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg's detective senses are tingling…
> 
>  
> 
> Anthea would obviously try not to use weapons in broad daylight on the streets of Paris. But she wouldn't pass up the chance to add another knife to her collection.


	17. Fidanzati

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salisbury Plain
> 
> Sherlock and John talk some more, and come to an agreement.

"Am I very difficult to be with, John?"

"Eh? What?"

"Am I very difficult to be with?"

"Yes. A lot of the time. Why are you asking this right now?"

"It might become necessary for me to become less difficult to be with."

"Okay. That's cryptic."

John Watson smiles and moves closer to Sherlock on the narrow bed. 

"You're not difficult to be with _all_ the time." He smiles again, kisses Sherlock's shoulder. "Sometimes you're quite nice to be with."

"There are very few who would agree."

Sherlock turns towards John, puts his head on his shoulder. John puts his arm around him, hugs him close. 

"You've got some good friends, Sherlock."

"Name five."

"Why five?"

"It seems a reasonable number. I would not presume to have as many as you, for instance. Or as few as my brother…"

"All right then. Lestrade."

"Yes. Lestrade is a…friend."

"He's a bit more than a friend, isn't he? You two have a bit of…history…"

"I've never claimed to be an innocent, John."

"I know, and it doesn't matter. Molly Hooper."

"Yes, Molly. I have sometimes been very horrible to Molly. But she remains my friend. I wonder why?"

"I sometimes wonder that as well. Dimmock."

"DI Dim. He can be delightful company. He's very funny, you know. He is bright, too, brighter than most at the Yard. I expect him to outstrip Lestrade in his career. He could make Superintendent in ten years. Is he my friend, do you think, John?"

"When you…jumped…he was about the only one at the Yard that stood up for you. Other than Lestrade, of course. Mind you, you might want to stop calling him DI Dim…"

"Hmm. That's three…"

"Billy."

"Billy?"

"Yes. Trust me on this. Billy is your friend. He'd give you his last cigarette. Give up his bed. You've got history with him as well, of course…"

"Billy and I have never…"

"A different sort of history. From when you were both addicts…"

"He saved my life once. When I overdosed."

"Lestrade reckons more than once."

"We're still both addicts, John. You don't stop being an addict."

"You're both clean. Have been for a long time."

"I'll accept Billy on the list. That's four. "

"Mrs Hudson."

"Yes, all right. Five. You win."

John smiles. 

"Six."

"Six?"

"John Watson."

"I hoped you were much more than a friend, John."

"Yes. But being your… whatever I am, doesn't mean I stop being your friend."

"What is that, exactly?"

"What?"

"My whatever-you-are?"

"What would you like it to be?"

"Not 'partner'. We're already partners in the work."

John laughs. 

"I suppose we are. I'm not letting you call me your boyfriend. I'm too old to be anyone's boyfriend."

Sherlock looks disappointed.

John racks his brains. What _is_ he to Sherlock?

"How about 'significant other'?"

Sherlock looks appalled. 

"Ghastly expression. It is something Mycroft would use. No."

"Lover?"

"Are we lovers, John?"

"We were half an hour ago…"

"Ah. You're using it as a technical term…"

John laughs out loud. 

"Idiot. I'm using it in the sense that I love you. And I hope to be able to prove it, in a physical sense, every so often. If you have no objections, of course."

"No objections, John."

They lie quietly for a while. 

"Fidanzato."

"What?"

"Fidanzato. It's Italian for boyfriend. Rolls off the tongue nicely."

"If you must. Wait. You'd have to explain it all the time. You'll say, 'This is John, he's my fidanzato'. And people will say 'Your what?' And you'll say 'It's Italian for boyfriend'. Won't you?"

"Um…"

"I'm your boyfriend, aren't I? Sneaky bugger."

"Boyfriend. I like having you for a boyfriend, John."

"All right. Boyfriends. Okay."

They lie quietly for a while.

"Sherlock. Why might it be necessary for you to become less difficult to be with?"

"I don't want to drive you away, John."

"You won't. But it wasn't just that, was it?"

"Do you remember I told you that we would have a partner in Billy's part of the mission?"

"Yes"

"It is very important that I do not upset the partner. I may need your help with that."

"Okay."


	18. Live on stage, Triplicity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Le Bateau Ivre, Rouen
> 
> The band play their first gig.

Billy and Anthea sit on their amplifiers, close to the little stage. Lestrade stands behind them, swigging from a bottle of Coca-Cola. The duo on stage are good. They have been allowed to sing three songs. The average for the night has been two. The crowd are good, too. They let the performers know when they want more. Or less. 

The MC catches Lestrade's eye and nods. 

"Okay, kids. We're up next."

Lestrade has fallen naturally into the role of band leader. Billy gets too easily distracted by the music of the other performers. Anthea has no idea how to be stage manager, roadie, sound check technician. 

The onstage duo finish their song and take a bow as Billy and Lestrade climb up and dump their gear at the back of the little stage. 

Billy plugs in, tunes minimally while waiting for the others to settle. He is a little nervous. He hasn't played for an audience for a while. Lestrade counts them in to their first song. They have four ready, enough to show off their range, but only expect to play three, at most. 

The crowd like their cover of the Hard-Fi version of 'Toxic'. Billy sings, Lestrade taking over for the Clash insert. Anthea picks out the song's signature phrase, LED lights flashing on her violin. The applause level invites them to continue. They slow it down for a bluesy number, Anthea taking the vocal, standing close to Billy, dropping to her knees and leaning against him, hand wrapped around his ankle, cheek against his thigh, as she sings _"I need your love so bad"_. The crowd erupt as he plays out the guitar solo ending. 

Lestrade steps up to centre stage as the MC nods to him to continue. They are level-pegging for best act of the night, now. Lestrade takes the lead, bass and voice thumping out "My Sharona". Billy moves across the stage to stand behind him, leaning over his shoulder to share a mic. Anthea sits on the edge of the stage, resting, letting the men be the stars. The crowd join in with the chorus. Feet stamp to the beat. They know this song, and like it.

Lestrade catches the MC's eye. Unbelievably, he is signalling them to continue. Lestrade nods, and moves across the stage to where Anthea is sitting. 

"Can you do another song?"

She nods, and he helps her to her feet. They play a slow version of "Livin' On A Prayer", the audience joining in again, cigarette lighters waving, despite the ban on smoking in bars. At the end of the song, Lestrade shakes his head at the MC, and they pick up their gear and leave the stage for the next act. 

Anthea sighs.

"That was the most fantastic feeling…"

Lestrade grins

"Haven't you done that before?"

She shakes her head, smiling broadly. 

"I want to do it again."

"They would have let us do more."

Billy is on an adrenaline high. People pat him on the shoulder. Someone pats his arse. The guitarist from another band shakes his hand. A young blonde woman from the crowd grabs him and pulls his head down to kiss him. Her mouth is sticky, lip gloss, and she tastes of something alcoholic and sweet. He pulls away, startled, as she starts to open her mouth. She smiles and shrugs. Turns to Anthea, holds out her hand. 

"Vous êtes très chanceux. Vos deux hommes sont à la fois très jolie…"

Anthea shakes the blonde's hand, passing over the keys to the VW and palming a replacement set of car keys. 

"Oui, je suis heureux." 

Anthea smiles. Billy doesn't notice the exchange this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone loves a sexy axe man.
> 
> Anthea has contacts everywhere…
> 
> Triplicity's set list
> 
> Hard-Fi: Toxic: <http://youtu.be/Gmh5XirW73A>
> 
> Gary Moore: Need Your Love So Bad: <http://youtu.be/YXljcwt7JMk>
> 
> The Knack: My Sharona: <http://youtu.be/fEKWR7WfsJo>
> 
> Bon Jovi: Livin' On A Prayer: <http://youtu.be/Ye7H6yMy1Ks>


	19. Queenie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salisbury Plain
> 
> John gets an email and an introduction to a new team member.

"Who's Queenie?"

"Hmm?"

"I've got an email. Someone called Queenie. User ID is QF. There's a link. Will it be okay to click on it?"

Sherlock unsteeples his fingers and bounces up to a sitting position. 

"Queenie is one of Mycroft's tech people. She frequently works with Colonel Smith. Why is she sending _you_ emails? Oh, wait, I've got one too."

*********

From: QF  
To: Group: AS; GL; BW; SH; JW  
Attachments: 1: **team1vid**  
Subject: Saw this and thought of you…

Hi all  
Found this on YouTube. Thought you'd like to see it. Sir got a bit warm watching 'Sharona'. 

Boss, you might want to FaceTime with Cap. Get him to look at Doc's embroidery. 

Enjoy. **_Queenie_**

*********

"Ugh. She's using code names. I wish she wouldn't."

"Code names?"

"Yes. It's very irritating. You are obviously Cap, John."

"Right. Okay. Not Doc? I'm usually Doc."

"Have you done any 'embroidery' lately?"

"Er, no. At least, I don't think so…. Oh. Needle work. Bill."

"Yes. _Doctor_ Wiggins."

"Right, I see. So 'Boss' is Anthea. She wants me to have a look at Anthea's stitches. Using FaceTime. Why wouldn't Anthea just get a local doctor to look at them?"

"She won't want to risk anyone outside the mission seeing a knife wound."

"Right. I'll wait for her call. Er, Sherlock. What does Queenie call you?"

"I really hope you never need to find out."

*********

_"Doctor Watson, could you take a look at my stitches, please?"_

"Hello, Colonel. Yes, can you just get a bit more light…okay, that's good. Hold the phone still for a moment. Er, do I have to call you Boss?"

_"No, that's just Queenie being Queenie. Call me Anthea, please. I think the stitches are fine, but this will stop her nagging me."_

"Call me John then. Six stitches? He's done a good job as far as I can see. No pulling, nice and neat. Any pain? Does the wound feel hot?"

_"No. Lestrade disinfected it well before Billy stitched it. We tried glue first, but it wouldn't hold."_

"Dermaflex is antibacterial. If you've got that in there, it will help fight infection off. I don't think you need to worry."

_"Thank you, John. I saw the video of your parachute jump. Good job for a beginner. Are you going to be all right when it comes to the real thing?"_

"I'll be fine. I saw your video, too. Great performance."

_"Yes. It seems we can hold a tune. Could you talk to Lestrade, please? He needs to get something out of his system. Bit of man to man talk might help."_

"Okay. Keep those stitches dry. Bye, Anthea."


	20. Red pill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rouen
> 
> Lestrade reviews a video and voices some suspicions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter. Lestrade's reaction to Queenie's email.

**To:QF: Colonel Smith tells me you're our tech person? GL**

**To:GL: That's correct. Problem, Chief? QF**

**To:QF: Chief? OK. Is there any way of getting that video taken off YouTube? GL**

**To:GL: Already taken down, Chief. Don't want to risk your mates at the Met seeing their DCI wiggling his arse onstage. Nice arse, by the way ;) QF**

**To:QF: Thanks, I think. Do you monitor everything? GL**

**To:GL: Everything on the secure devices. Phones, iPads, laptops. Vital signs and GPS via the sneaky little gizmos in the red pills you swallowed…QF**

**To:QF: I didn't swallow a red pill. GL**

**To:GL: No? Did you swallow the blue one? No wonder I can't get a readout on you. QF**

**To:QF: You're fucking with my head, aren't you? GL**

**To:GL: Yes, Chief. You make it so easy. No pills. I monitor the web. Facial recognition software, flags on your names and known aliases. Flags on the band name, now. Flags on your known nemeses. GPS via your phone. Sadly, can't do vital signs, but I'm working on it. Texts, calls, emails. I might look at your porn. QF**

**To:QF: Hope you like gay porn. GL**

**To:AS;GL: I like this one, Boss. Can I have him when you're finished with him? QF**

**To: QF;GL: Get your own, Queenie. He's taken, sadly. Lestrade, what are you doing with my tech officer?**

**To: AS; QF: Asking a technical question. Ending this conversation now. GL**

*********

Lestrade plugs earbuds into his iPad, thumbs the video link again. The video is very good quality. He hadn't particularly noticed anyone filming the gig, but lots of people had their phones out. He decides not to worry about it, Queenie obviously has an eye out for the team's safety and security, and Anthea has made his position in the team very clear. 

The performance of the first song is good, he decides. Anthea is dancing around him and Billy, playing and singing very well. The LEDs on her violin add splashes of colour to the white stage lights. The audience likes the song. If that were the entire performance, he would be satisfied, but not ecstatic. 

It is during the second song that the atmosphere becomes charged. Lestrade had thought at first that Anthea was tiring as she dropped to her knees, but Billy had reacted strongly to her leaning on him, and the crowd had gone crazy. He'd known something had happened, but hadn't been in position to see the complete picture. 

He focuses on the last part of the second song. Anthea is _stalking_ towards Billy, who stands almost on the front edge of the stage, oblivious to anything but the music. She sings directly at him, _"…listen to my plea, baby, bring it to me, because I need your love so bad…"_ As she reaches him, she drops to her knees, left hand on the back of his thigh, high up, almost touching his arse. Her hand moves around, a little lower, between his legs to the inside of his thigh, and Billy reacts, spreading his legs open wide, curling his torso inward over his guitar, pelvis forward. The crowd erupt, and he drops his head down, hiding his face as he plays the final guitar solo. Anthea's hand slides the length of his leg, ends up wrapped around his ankle. She leans against his leg, cheek pressed to his thigh. It is hot, and dirty.

Lestrade replays the last part of the song, watching himself. Sees his own reaction to the audience as the guitar solo ends and he takes up the challenge with the pounding bass intro to the next song. Sees himself jerk his head in a _"get over here"_ gesture. Sees Billy almost running to get to him in time to share a mic and the vocal, standing as close to him as possible, moving his hips in rhythm with Lestrade's. The two men are hot and dirty, too. 

"No wonder we got asked to do a fourth song."

Lestrade jumps. He hadn't noticed Billy standing behind him. 

"Christ, Bill. Don't sneak up on me like that."

"I wasn't sneaking. You had your earbuds in. I don't want to do that song again."

"What, Sharona?"

"No. Idiot. The other one. I didn't realise how dirty it looked. I don't remember doing that…"

"You were concentrating on playing. Your body just reacted. Good job you had your Strat to hide behind."

Billy flushes

"That's not funny, Greg."

"Don't let it upset you. It's a great song. You were great."

Lestrade thinks for a moment, pinches the bridge of his nose, huffs out a breath. 

"I think we should keep it in. It's our best song."

"I don't like her touching me like that, Greg. It makes me uncomfortable."

"Do you want me to talk to her? I can ask her not to do it again…"

"All right, but I'm going to try to find a different song, anyway."

*********

"Lestrade"

_"Saw your video, Greg. Brilliant stuff. Looked like fun._

"Hello, John. Yeah. It was a good gig. Anthea's all right on that violin. Not as good as Sherlock, of course, but…"

_"I've never seen you play before. You were bloody good. Bit hot. Sherlock liked it, even though he won't admit it. Bill's terrific on that guitar, as well."_

"Yeah. He's really good. We haven't played much lately. I've missed it."

_"You'll have to let me know next time you're playing in London. I'll come and watch."_

"Yeah. All right. You're starting to sound like a groupie, John. What did you really call about?"

_"Can't a bloke just ring a mate to say he enjoyed a show?"_

"Sherlock's not the only detective in the world, John."

_"All right. Anthea says you're upset about something. Asked me to have a word."_

"She's got Bill a bit upset. Confused. You saw them in the film? He didn't like the way she touched him. Doesn't want to do that song again. He gets a bit fired up around her, aroused, you know, and he doesn't know what to make of it. I don't either, to be honest. I've already asked her to back off, but she told me it was in my head, and his. He's not used to being around women much, not in such close quarters. He's not used to them liking the look of him, which she gives every impression of."

_"She knows he's gay, though? Knows you two are together?"_

"We're not exactly _together_. Well, we are sort of… It's complicated. But, yeah. She knows he's gay. "

_"Greg, has Billy actually asked her to back off? Asked her himself, I mean?"_

"No. He's shy. And a bit scared of her, as well. Why did she ask you to talk to me?"

_"She says you won't talk to her."_

"I will, John. I'm just worried that what she's doing might be strategic. You know she didn't want me on this mission, don't you?"

_"She told you that?"_

"Yeah. Mycroft insisted on me being included, apparently."

_"Sherlock, as well, from what I can gather. But not necessarily for the same reasons."_

"That's interesting."

_"Yeah. I'll have a chat with Sherlock. Or try to. Let you know if he tells me anything useful. Or anything at all."_

"Cheers, John. Oh, by the way, you wouldn't happen to know offhand what a drug called Clomiphene does, would you?"

_"I do, as it happens. I've got a patient who's taking it. It's an infertility treatment. Helps to encourage ovulation. Why?"_

"No reason, just heard someone mention it in the bar. You know my copper's ears prick up when I hear talk about drugs. It wasn't one I'd heard of. Didn't know if was something shady."

_"It's not recreational, Greg. You won't need to bust anyone."_

"Thanks mate. Bye."

 

*****

**To: AS: Chief's asking questions about fertility drugs. QF**

**To: QF: He asked Dr Watson? AS**

**To: AS: Yes, Boss. He knows I monitor calls. He's not stupid. He's letting us know he's poking about. QF**

**To: QF: Noted. Thanks Queenie. AS**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't resist a sneaky reference to the Matrix.
> 
>  
> 
> Issues relating to fertility will appear in later chapters. I will flag them in beginning chapter notes when they do.


	21. Dammit, we're not in a spy film…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rouen
> 
>  
> 
> Lestrade and Anthea talk about the mission. Anthea helps her agenda on a bit.

_"Mycroft Holmes"_

"I want Lestrade off this team."

_"Things not going quite as planned, Colonel?"_

"He's getting in my way."

_"He was useful in Paris."_

"He's insubordinate. And suspicious. And he thinks I'm trying to harm Dr Wiggins." 

_"I understand. Gregor stays. If you can't work around that, you are not the person I thought you were. Have you been able to test Dr Wiggins's likely suitability…?"_

"No, sir. Not yet. It would be easier without Lestrade…"

_"Gregor stays. I should not have to repeat myself, Colonel. I have been in contact with our partner. There have been some developments at his end. I am accelerating phases one and two. Be ready to move on to Vézelay tomorrow."_

"Yes sir."

_"On a connected matter, it seems that the gang that attacked you in Paris had information that had been leaked by someone who was unaware of Lestrade's involvement. I am checking my own sources, of course…"_

"You need me to check mine. I'll get on it, sir."

_"Try to make friends with Gregor. He would give his life to protect Bill, without a second of hesitation. He will work with you in any case, but he would be a useful friend to have on your side."_

"It might be too late for that, sir. I may have alienated him."

_"That is unfortunate. Be a good colleague then. Trust him with all the phase one details. I personally vouch for him. Phase one only. For now."_

"Yes, sir." 

*********

Lestrade is sitting smoking at a wooden picnic table in the small garden behind the guesthouse when Anthea appears at his shoulder with a bottle of scotch and two glasses. He is still a little hyped from the gig, knows there's no point even trying to sleep yet. He has had a look around the place, checked the car park. The VW camper has gone. He has no idea what vehicle Anthea has replaced it with. 

"We need to talk, Greg." 

"Do we? What about?" 

Anthea sits and pours two drinks. Slides one across the table to Lestrade. 

"The mission. Your clearance has been upgraded a bit. Mr Holmes suggests I share a little more information about this phase with you." 

"Go on then." 

"Dr Wiggins's clearance has not been upgraded. I would need your assurance that you will not pass on information to him." 

"Best not tell me anything if you don't trust me, Colonel. Don't want to get into trouble." 

"Don't be ridiculous, Lestrade. You've kept secrets for Mycroft before with no difficulty." 

"Yeah. And I've been trusted to do it. I've never been specifically asked not to divulge information. It sounds like you don't have the same confidence in me that your boss has." 

"You and Dr Wiggins are…" 

"Leave it, Colonel. Tell me what I need to know when I need to know it. Or tell me more and trust my judgement. It's up to you." 

Anthea tosses back her scotch. Shudders. 

"You shouldn't drink that if you don't like it. Waste of good whisky." 

"You're not drinking yours…" 

"Waiting for you to go first." 

Lestrade grins the biggest, sharkiest grin Anthea has ever seen. 

"Dammit, Lestrade. We're not in a spy film." 

"Could have fooled me. Ma'am." 

"Don't do this. I'm trying to build bridges here." 

"Oh, is that what you're doing? And here's me thinking you're just trying to piss me off a bit more." 

"This is about Dr Wiggins, isn't it?" 

"You told me we were both imagining things. That's not true, is it? You _want_ him to fancy you. Why can't you just leave him be? What happens if he falls for you? He's already had one really disastrous relationship. He's fragile…" 

Anthea leans across the table, pours herself another scotch. 

"He's not likely to fall for me, is he? You're making sure of that." 

"I don't know, Anthea. I've never seen him fired up over a woman before, and I've known him a long time. I don't know, _he_ doesn't know why he's reacting to you the way he is. Don't hurt him, please." 

"You're still in love with him." 

"No comment." 

"Even after he left you for someone else." 

"No comment." 

"We'll only be cooped up together for another week or so." 

"And then I get sent packing." 

"He won't be working with me much once this phase is over. I'm not trying to usurp you in his… affections." 

"Tell me where we're going." 

"Tomorrow we go to Vézelay. Two days in a gîte and another gig. Some background information on the research will be available there for Bill to study. Then we move on to Chamonix." 

"We're going to Switzerland?" 

"Yes. The research facility is in Lausanne. You'll get to meet Queenie there. She wants to meet you." 

"Hang on. You said another week or so. I thought we were on the road for three weeks…" 

"Phase two has been accelerated. So we have as well." 

"Phase two being Sherlock and John?" 

"No comment." 

"My clearance hasn't been upped much then. I don't see why Bill can't be told where we're going next. He'll find out tomorrow, as it is." 

"He's not used to having to keep secrets. Where is he, anyway?" 

"Went to bed. Said he had bellyache." 

"We've got some of his magic painkillers in the first aid kit. I'll take some up to him, if you have no objections. And I'll apologise to him for overplaying things on stage." 

"All right. Leave him if he's asleep though, he doesn't sleep enough. And thanks for the scotch." 

*********

Anthea opens the door to the attic room quietly. Billy is lying on the bed, curled up, holding his abdomen, moaning a little. 

Anthea walks across the room, sits on the edge of the bed. 

"Are you all right, Bill? Greg said you have stomach pains. I've brought you some Paramorph. It should help." 

She helps Billy sit up and hands him two tablets and a bottle of mineral water. He swallows the pills and half the water. 

"It feels like when I had my appendix out. Can't be that though. Unless I've grown another one." 

He barks out a little laugh. 

"Is your stomach upset?" 

"No. Just hurting. Did Greg talk to you about the gig?" 

"Yes. I didn't mean to upset you, Bill." 

"I want to drop that song. Greg thinks we should keep it in, though." 

"The audience loved it. And you played it brilliantly." 

"I like the tune. Like a bit of blues, but…" 

"You were uncomfortable." 

"Yeah." 

"I could try stroking Greg's thigh instead, next time. See how he reacts." 

Billy laughs. The painkillers are starting to kick in, and he feels a little better. 

"He'd probably play up to you. He's used to women." 

"And you're not?" 

"No. When that blonde girl kissed me, I had no idea what to do. I felt so stupid…" 

"Was it repulsive?" 

"No. Just weird. I've only ever kissed men before, and not that many. I don't really know what kissing a girl is supposed to feel like." 

Billy smiles. He feels a little confused. His pupils are blown wide. Anthea leans in and kisses him. 

"It's supposed to feel like this." 

Billy moans and reaches for her, catching his fingers in her hair as he kisses back. Anthea moves closer, places her hand on his belly. 

"Does it still hurt?" 

"No…no. I feel…I don't know…" 

"It's all right, Bill. It's all right." 

She strokes his hair, holds him against her as he slumps, quietens. Falls asleep. 

She lays him down gently, makes sure he is asleep, then carefully takes a sterile cotton bud from her pocket. She opens its packaging, careful not to touch the cotton. She can't afford to contaminate the sample. She swabs under Billy's tongue, collecting saliva, and seals the swab in a plastic pot, which she slips into her pocket. She repeats the process three times. 

She covers Billy carefully with the blankets, and leaves quietly, taking the water bottle with her. 

She walks lightly down the stairs, to the next floor, hears Lestrade moving around in his room. She smiles and goes to her own room, where she places the samples into two small envelopes, two pots in each. She uses the guest house phone to make a call, and her secure mobile to make another. 

Half an hour later, Anthea goes quietly downstairs and lets herself out of the front door. A motorcyclist pulls up. Anthea checks the registration of the bike. It tallies with the information on the petticoat label she had destroyed earlier. She hands both envelopes holding the saliva swabs to the courier. He has had his instructions and knows what to do with them. 


	22. Rohypnol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rouen
> 
> Billy doesn't remember what Anthea did.

"You all right, Billy?"

Billy doesn't answer. He is deeply asleep, dribbling a little into a wet patch on his pillow. Lestrade sighs and lies down beside him, on top of the blankets. It is chilly in the attic room, but Lestrade doesn't undress, doesn't get right into the bed with Billy. He hasn't been invited, and isn't completely sure of the welcome he will get when Billy wakes up. He hopes Billy will want him there. 

They have been sharing a bed in the camper van, and Billy has seemed happy enough with the arrangement, but it has been from necessity, rather than deliberate choice. Anthea has booked three rooms in the guesthouse, and Lestrade has his own room downstairs, but he was lonely by himself, and a little worried about leaving billy alone. 

He tries to get to sleep, but he is cold. There is a thin patchwork quilt folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Lestrade unfolds it and pulls it over himself. 

He sleeps through till morning. Wakes with his phone buzzing in his pocket. 

**To: GL: If you two want breakfast, you'd better get yourselves down here soon. We need to get moving. AS**

**To: AS: OK. Down shortly. GL**

Lestrade turns to look at Billy, who doesn't seem to have moved all night. He frowns. He has shared a bed with Billy often enough to know his sleep patterns. This stillness is not right. He can see the rise and fall of Billy's chest. It looks normal. He presses his fingers against the artery in Billy's neck. Pulse seems normal, too, and the skin is warm, but not hot. Everything _seems_ normal. 

He shakes Billy's shoulder gently, then a bit harder. Billy groans and opens his eyes. The pupils are dilated, and stay that way, instead of contracting against the morning light. 

"Urgh. Too bright."

"All right, mate?"

"Feel a bit weird." 

He closes his eyes and starts to drift back to sleep.

"Billy. Need to get up."

"No."

Lestrade laughs. 

"Come on love. Let's get you up."

"Head hurts. Feel sick…"

Billy tries to sit up. Succeeds on the second attempt, rolls off the edge of the bed. Lestrade helps him to his feet, and his knees buckle under him. Lestrade half-carries him to the bathroom where he vomits up not very much. 

"Did you have a drink last night, Bill? Thought you came straight up here with bellyache…"

Billy blinks. Blinks again. Lestrade peers at him. His pupils are still blown.

"Shit, Bill. Have you _taken_ something?"

"No…don't remember…"

*********

_"John Watson"_

"Hello John. Need help with some symptoms, if you've got a minute."

_"Okay. Fire away."_

"Drowsiness, nausea, weakness, poor coordination. Bit wobbly, weak knees, you know. Blown pupils. Confusion. No memory of last night after the gig. Shit, John. I'd say Rohypnol. I've seen that often enough. But I don't see how it can be."

_"Wouldn't have thought Anthea would let anyone spike a drink."_

"It's not Anthea, John. It's Billy. I couldn't wake him up this morning, and he doesn't look as if he's moved all night. Hasn't kicked the covers off or anything. He's usually fidgety."

_"Ah. Sorry, Greg. I automatically think in terms of a female victim. Need to break that habit, I know. It could be Flunitrazepam. Has he been assaulted?"_

"Doesn't seem to have been any sexual assault. He's not complaining of soreness. No bruises or anything."

_"Could be another benzodiazepine. Is he on antidepressants? Or sleeping pills? Flunitrazepam is sometimes prescribed as a tranquilliser. Could he have taken the wrong pills?"_

"He won't take anything that might be addictive, John. You know his history, and he's not stupid with drugs. He had some Paramorph for bellyache last night, but he's had that before, without any adverse reactions."

_"Did you actually see him take the Paramorph? Are you sure that's what he took? If he's had Fluni…Rohypnol, it would have started to kick in about twenty minutes or so after ingestion."_

"It would have had to be after we got to the guest house, then. He was okay until he went up to bed, apart from the bellyache. I didn't see him take anything. Anthea gave him the Paramorph, from our first aid kit."

_"Keep an eye on him, Greg. Make sure he has plenty of water. If he's up and about, he'll probably be okay. If he gets short of breath, or can't pee, get him to a hospital. Have a word with Anthea, Flunitrazepam can be used as a sedative. It's dodgy, because it lowers inhibitions and can cause amnesia, but it might have a place in an operative's kit. Let's hope it's nothing more sinister than a mistake."_

"Okay. I don't think pissing's going to be a problem. I can hear him now. I'll keep an eye on his breathing. Thanks John."

*********

"You've missed breakfast."

"Fuck breakfast. What did you give him?"

"What are you talking about?"

"He's looking very like someone who's been doped with Rohypnol. _What did you give him?_ "

"Calm down. He was in pain and needed to sleep. The Paramorph helped the pain, but you know it doesn't cause drowsiness. I gave him a tranquilliser. He'll be fine."

"He's an _addict_. How could you be so stupid?"

"His file didn't indicate any addiction to Benzodiazepines."

"Don't ever do it again. God, you almost had me trusting you last night. Stay clear of him, Colonel."

"We'll let him decide if he wants me to, shall we? Get your stuff together. We need to move now."

"Not before he's eaten something. It's your fault he couldn't wake up early."

"Fine. I'm sorry."

"Tell him that."


	23. The other boot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salisbury plain
> 
> John worries a bit. Sherlock isn't much help.

John Watson is more than a little worried. He has been involved in a "secret mission" for only a few days, and already, he feels like an extra in a spy film. Sherlock is one of the stars, of course, and the director. He has seen the whole script, and is keeping it a secret from John. 

John doesn't like being kept in the dark.

He worries whether he has the right clothing and equipment. _"Pack for cold weather"_ Sherlock had said. He hopes he has enough warm clothing. He doesn't know how long he will need it for. He has packed his gun, of course, but Anthea must have packed hers, Lestrade too, probably, and they had still been attacked in broad daylight _on the streets of Paris, for heaven's sake._ And Anthea had been stabbed. John knows Anthea is a more skilled soldier than he is. He suspects she is Special Forces trained. He knows Lestrade is a better street-fighter than Sherlock. He has seen them both in action, and, feeling a little guilty about it, he knows which of the two detectives he would rather stand back-to back with in a fight. Billy knows how to fight, too. He has seen the results of Billy's style of fighting. Hell, he has seen Billy take on _Lestrade._ And Anthea still got stabbed.

John worries that he and Sherlock haven't met up with any other team members. It dawns on him that he and Sherlock are going to be going in to wherever-it-is on their own. And they will get there by jumping out of an aeroplane. How will they get back? They won't be jumping back _up_ into a plane, that's for certain. He will have to trust that Sherlock doesn't get put out of action. He's the only one who knows what's going on. 

John throws himself into activity. He cleans his gun and repacks it. He checks his small first aid kit; bandages and dressings, antiseptic, Dermaflex and threaded needles. Antibiotics. Painkillers. He breathes thanks to Billy Wiggins and the non-addictive analgesic the young scientist has developed. 

He repacks his clothing, and runs out of things to do. 

"You're twitchy, John."

Sherlock has come back from his firearms training. He is finally hitting the centre of his targets, and is feeling pleased with himself. 

"You'd be twitchy as well, if you were waiting for the other boot to drop."

"I don't understand that expression, John."

"Imagine you're sharing a room with bunk beds. You're in the bottom bunk and trying to get to sleep, and the bloke in the top bunk takes one of his boots off and drops it on the floor. It makes a loud thump. And you wait for the other one to drop. And it doesn't, but you can't go to sleep because you know as soon as you do, the other boot will drop and wake you up. So you wait…"

"Ah. A metaphor. Everything that you already know about the mission is the first boot?"

"Yes."

"How's your Russian, John?"

"I can say _privet_ and _do svidaniya_ "

"Hello and goodbye. Very useful."

"Don't be sarcastic. I can say _gde ya mogu napit'sya?_ and _gde ubornaya?_ as well."

"Where can I get drunk, and where is the lavatory. Oh,well done, John."

"Obviously, I don't speak Russian. Oh, hell…"

"Hmm"

*********

From:QF  
To: Cap  
Attachments: 2: **Audio translator (app link) PointPic (app link)**  
Subject: Downloadable apps for your phone

Hi Cap. These are the best apps I could find for you. Get Gum to talk to you as well, for a bit of practice. 

До свидания, **_Queenie_**

*********

" _Gum?_ " 

Sherlock sighs. 

"She insists on single-syllable names. It is very tiresome." 

"But Gum?" 

"Gumshoe…" 

"Ah. And she calls Mycroft Sir…" 

"Yes. It's maddening." 

"She says you should talk to me, for practice." 

"Да. Есть ли чай, Джон?" 

"I got "Yes" at the start, and "John", at the end of that. Sounds sexy with a Russian accent. What was the rest of it?" 

"Is there any tea?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's pronunciation:  
> "Da. Yest' li chay, Dzhon?"
> 
>  
> 
> I do not speak Russian


	24. Pom-poms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salisbury Plain
> 
> John drives a snowmobile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally part of chapter 23, but I felt it needed to be split off and given its own space.

John concentrates on keeping himself upright in the saddle. The terrain dips and rises in front of him, beside him. He can feel his knuckles whitening on the handlebars. His thighs ache from gripping the seat. He gasps as the vehicle hits a stray branch and bucks under him. Teeth catch his tongue. He tastes the coppery saltiness of blood in his mouth. His goggles steam up, and he can feel sweat trickle down his spine. Trees _leap_ into his path. He steers left, right, leaning into the steer. Straightens out, and slows to a skidding stop. He slumps over the handlebars. 

A wash of bright light and a pneumatic hiss make him jump. 

"All right, sir?"

"Yes. Thanks, Sergeant. That was… exhilarating."

He grins. Takes off his glove and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Grimaces at the blood trace. His thighs are shaking from the effort to stay on the snowmobile. 

"Need that looking at, sir?"

"No. Just bit my tongue. It's fine. Thanks."

"Want to look at the recording, sir?"

"No. I'm sure it was a pretty terrible run."

"It wasn't bad sir, for a beginner. At least _you_ didn't fall off."

"Sherlock fell off?"

He laughs. Stops himself cold. _"Get a grip, Watson. What if he falls off when we're doing this for real? What if he hits a tree? What if…"_

"Breathe, John."

Sherlock's velvet voice pulls him out of his panic. 

"You fell off…"

"Only at the end. I completed the simulator run. We should analyse the recordings. To help us improve."

"Okay. Can we get a cup of coffee first, please?"

Sherlock leads the way to the cafeteria, shrugging off his waterproof jacket.

"What are you wearing? Is that a _cardigan?_ "

Sherlock sniffs, clearly offended.

"It is a knitted jacket."

"It's a cardigan, Sherlock." John giggles. "With pom-poms."

Sherlock is wearing a very expensive-looking piece of knitwear. It has been hidden under the lightweight waterproof jacket he has started wearing instead of his trademark coat. The coat is too bulky to pack, and too ridiculous to wear while jumping out of an aeroplane. He will miss it. The cardigan is winter white, chunky rib, with intricate cabling on the two front panels. It has a concealed zip and a hood, lined with Burberry check fabric and trimmed with good quality fake fur. And pom-poms, on the ends of the hood strings. 

"It is warm, John."

"It's very nice, Sherlock. Just need to…" John takes a picture with his phone. "There, that'll do it."

"Hmph. Childish, John."

"Yep. My turn."

"Просто подождать, пока в следующий раз вы не носите красные штаны."

"What?"

"How's the Russian coming along?"

"Git."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Prosto podozhdat', poka v sleduyushchiy raz vy ne nosite krasnyye shtany."
> 
> "Just wait until the next time you wear your red pants"
> 
> I may not give any more translations. Google translate works just as well for Russian Cyrillic text as it does for French. And it gives the pronunciations. If you're reading this, you are probably online anyway…


	25. Still thinking?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salisbury Plain
> 
> John reflects on stuff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final section of what was originally chapter 23. This _really_ needed its own space

John looks at himself in the mirror dispassionately. What he sees doesn't upset him too much. His hair is still blondish. Admittedly with a few grey hairs creeping in now. _"Only to be expected at forty-one"_ he thinks. Lines around his mouth and his dark blue eyes are evidence of a lot of laughter, and a lot of pain. He has some scars on his arms and legs, but what ex-soldier doesn't? They don't all have the starburst scar from a bullet wound in the shoulder, of course. He'd kept that scar hidden for a long time, until Sherlock had convinced him with gentle explorations that he needn't.

He is happy enough with his body. Stocky, muscular legs, firm belly. Not too hairy on the chest, smooth skin, for the most part, on his back. He is glad his pubic hair is still blond. His only regret is that he isn't a bit taller. He would dearly love to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Sherlock. 

Most of the time he doesn't mind being the smaller, duller companion, but just sometimes he wishes he were bigger, more luminous. If he is honest with himself, it is usually when he quietly observes Sherlock sparring with Lestrade. He knows the two of them have a history. He tells himself he doesn't want to know the details. Doesn't really want to know why Lestrade was on Moriarty's sniper list, why his designated assassin was _Sebastian Moran._

He wishes he had met Sherlock when Lestrade first knew him. _"What must he have been like back then?"_ He imagines an incandescent youth. _"God, What must Lestrade have been like back then? He must have been dazzling."_

He remembers looking back at Lestrade as he and Sherlock walked away from the college where he had shot a taxi driver to save Sherlock's life. He remembers the look of _loss_ on the man's face. Lestrade had known Sherlock had made a choice, and it wasn't him. 

"Are you going to stand there admiring yourself all night?" 

John laughs. "I'd rather stand here admiring you." 

"You are tense, John. Worried?" 

"A bit. Wondering if this old body will be able to keep up with you." 

"You're comparing yourself to him again. You know you don't need to." 

John sighs. He ought to know better than to think about this stuff anywhere around Sherlock. He always gets caught out. 

"Can't help it. I still don't get why you'd pick me over him. He's…I'm ordinary. You didn't even _know_ me…" 

"The law will always win with him. You proved you care more for me than for the law. And you didn't even _know_ me…" 

Sherlock smiles. 

"And you are by no means _ordinary_.You need to relax, John. Stop thinking. Mycroft has brought our trip forward. We leave tomorrow. You won't have time for much relaxation once we get going." 

"I don't think I'll be able to relax tonight, Sherlock." 

"I might be able to help with that. And it seems you are already conveniently nude…" 

"No, Sherlock. I'm naked. You're nude. And don't tell me you can't tell the difference." 

Sherlock is a pale marble statue. A Michelangelo. A David. John could look at him for ever. 

"You are most definitely nude, John. Like a golden-haired god." 

John laughs out loud. 

"Now you're being ridiculous." 

"Hmm. Though I must admit I have never seen a golden-haired god at such close quarters. There are some things I need to investigate…" 

"That tickles, Sherlock. Don't…oh." 

Sherlock loves to hear John moan. To hear the little noises he makes when Sherlock's tongue explores him. Sherlock drops to his knees and takes John's cock into his mouth. 

John goes still. The difference in their height means nothing, now. He winds his fingers into Sherlock's hair. Sighs as the sensations build. Sherlock is clever with his mouth. And with his long fingers. He takes John to the edge of orgasm; sucking, swirling his tongue, scraping very gently with his teeth. John groans as his balls lift and tighten. Sherlock drives him over the edge with a fingertip inserted into his anus. John gasps and comes. Sherlock swallows and smiles. 

"Still thinking?" 

"Nngh" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was obviously going to happen at some point.


	26. Deux chevaux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the road: Rouen to Vézelay 
> 
> The band move on. Lestrade isn't impressed.

"You are joking, aren't you?"

"Sadly, no."

Anthea is in full agreement with Lestrade, for once. The car her contact has provided is ridiculous. 

"Have you ever driven one? They've got a bastard gearbox, and the top speed is only about seventy miles an hour. Feel like they're going to tip over every time you go round a bend…"

"I'll have plenty of time to get used to it. It's around four hours in a decent car."

"Bank on five then. At least."

Billy emerges from the guesthouse, carrying his guitar case. He looks a little wobbly. He wears vintage steel-rimmed, blue-lensed sunglasses to protect his eyes against the dazzle of the still-early daylight, and a grey, ex-military overcoat that had obviously been made for someone even taller than he is. It had certainly been made for someone with more body mass. It hangs loosely on his skinny frame, and clears the ground, but not by much. He thinks it is Swedish, but isn't completely sure. Today, he wears it like a security blanket. 

"Is this our new car? Brilliant!"

"Might have known _you'd_ like it."

'It' is a yellow Citroen deux chevaux. Lestrade has driven one before, and hasn't much enjoyed the experience. 

"Let's get the boot loaded up. Billy, settle yourself in the back. Here, swap."

Lestrade takes Billy's guitar case and hands him a carrier bag full of cans. Perrier water. He intends to make sure that Billy stays hydrated, and has absolutely no intention of allowing him to drink from any container that could be contaminated. He stows the guitar in the boot, along with all their bags and musical equipment. Luckily, the 2CV has plenty of boot space. 

"Greg, will you sit in the back with me?"

Lestrade looks questioningly at Anthea. 

"D'you need me to navigate?"

"No. I've got Queenie."

"How?"

"Sat Nav. She'll keep an eye on traffic and reprogramme the navigation system remotely if necessary."

"Useful. Could do with her in London, sometimes."

"What's in the bag?"

"Cans of water for Bill."

Anthea flushes slightly. She has had her ears blistered by Queenie, who had listened into Lestrade's call to John Watson earlier that morning. She knows she sometimes crosses the line of what would be considered appropriate behaviour, but is still prepared to cross it if she feels it is justified. Her behaviour towards Billy was justified, she believes. _"I just helped things along a bit",_ she'd told Queenie. Queenie had been furious. She is one of very few people who Anthea respects enough to take an ear-bashing from, and her anger has upset her. 

"It won't happen again."

"No. It won't."

"What won't?"

Billy has sharp ears. Lestrade raises an eyebrow at Anthea. He isn't going to make this easier for her.

"I gave you a tranquilliser to help you sleep last night. I'm sorry."

She doesn't mention what else had happened. 

"Is that why I feel so shit? I don't remember that."

"Side effect. Doesn't always happen. I've been told off."

Lestrade climbs into the back seat with Billy, who cuddles up as close to him as the seat belts allow. 

"How's your bellyache? Has it gone?"

"Still got it a bit. Took some paracetamol. I used to get pain like this years ago. Every two or three months, just for a few days. Thought it was my appendix. It stopped when I had it taken out. Can't be the same thing, can it?"

"Never heard of anyone having more than one appendix. If it gets worse I'll find you a doctor."

Anthea climbs into the driver's seat, crunches the car into gear and they are off.

*********

The journey to Vézelay takes close to six hours. The weather is bad, there is fog, freezing rain and slushy snow to cope with, and Anthea finds the car difficult to handle. Lestrade spells her. They move a little faster when he is at the wheel, but it is tiring for both of them. They drive for around an hour each at a time. Billy dozes in the back of the car when Lestrade is driving. Anthea stays in the front. They are all tired and hungry when they finally arrive outside their new accommodation. 

The gîte is a good-sized holiday cottage, along a little track. There is central heating, which is on when they arrive, and a lobby opening onto a large open plan kitchen/living/ dining room on the ground floor. Upstairs, there are three double bedrooms and a family-sized bathroom. 

"I want the room at the front." Anthea wants to be able to keep an eye on the road. "Which room do you want, Bill?"

"Whichever one Greg's in." He turns to Lestrade and speaks softly. "That's if you don't mind, Greg?"

Lestrade smiles. 

"Are you sure, Billy?"

"Yeah. Don't want to be on my own."


	27. Arkady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yekaterinburg
> 
> Sherlock and John are on their way. They meet an old friend of Sherlock's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arkady is going to be around a lot in this series. I hope you like him. 
> 
> Russian pronunciations and translations at the end for anyone reading offline…

John Watson is a bit fed up. His mouth is dry and his eyes itch. He has cramp in his right leg and his left arm feels dead from the weight of Sherlock leaning on it. Sherlock is asleep, his head resting heavily on John's shoulder, his hair getting up John's nose. 

They have had a very long day of travelling, starting with a five and a half hour commercial flight from Bristol to Domodedovo airport, close to Moscow, stopping briefly in Amsterdam on the way. They had arrived at Domodedovo with barely enough time to get their connecting flight to Yekaterinburg, another four hours. 

John doesn't much care for flying. He much prefers to travel by train. But flying is a necessary evil on this trip. 

He sighs and hopes he will still have the use of both arms and legs when they arrive.

*********

John knows they are going to be met in Yekaterinburg. What he doesn't expect is to be met by a white-blond, blue-eyed Lestrade-alike wearing a fur coat and a huge, toothy grin, who grabs Sherlock in a bear hug. 

"Здравствуйте, Вилхамур Сигерович. Это приятно видеть вас Висхка, это было слишком долго. Кто это?"

Sherlock smiles at his friend. 

_"Number seven, clearly"_ John thinks, unhappily. John doesn't understand much beyond 'zdrastvyetye', the more formal 'hello', and Sherlock's false name. 

"Привет, Аркаша . это мой друг Джон. Его русский не очень хорошо ..."

John notices that Sherlock uses the informal 'privet' to greet his friend, and refers to John using his real name. He is surprised he can pick out anything at all, the two men speak so quickly. John doesn't have a new identity. There are already too many records of him in too many countries to make it feasible. His cover story is that he is involved in medical research, visiting colleagues in Siberia. The cover story is actually not far from the truth. 

The man turns to John and envelops him in a bear hug of his own. 

"Welcome, John. If you are a friend of Vishka, I am very pleased to meet you. He does not give many the honour."

Sherlock smiles as John tries to extricate himself from what seems to be a whole family of Russian bears. 

"John, this is Arkady Yegorov. He's an old friend. He'll be giving us a lift. It's a pity we can't stay longer, you two would get on like a house on fire."

John isn't at all sure that they would. He whispers to Sherlock

"Vishka? I thought your name was Vilhjálmur…"

"Russians use diminutives when they speak to their friends. They often bear little resemblance to the formal name. Yours would be Vanya, for example, because the nearest Russian equivalent to John is Ivan."

"Right. And Sigerovich? "

"Straight Russian translation of Sigerson."

"Okay. Just so I know. I can still use Sigerson here?"

"Yes." Sherlock turns to Arkady. "I'm sorry we don't have time to visit with you properly, Arkasha…"

"Next time, Vishka."

Arkady gestures to them to follow him and they walk to the car park. John sighs when he sees their transport is an old Ural motorcycle combination. He knows he is going to end up crammed into the sidecar with their backpacks. Luckily, the journey to the airfield where they will pick up their final flight is not long. 

Arkady hugs them goodbye, kissing Sherlock on the cheek and ruffling his hair. They clamber aboard the plane for the eight hour journey to the forest around Vladivostok.

*********

The flight is as uncomfortably boring as a bumpy eight hour flight in a non-commercial plane with poorly-upholstered seats can be. After six hours, John is ready to throw himself out of the plane without Sherlock . After seven, he is ready to throw himself out without a parachute.

Sherlock is uncharacteristically quiet and well-behaved. He seems withdrawn, apprehensive. This worries John more than the flight does. He is relieved when Sherlock finally leaps to his feet and starts strapping on his backpack. John straps his own pack to his chest. The copilot helps Sherlock and John into their tandem jumping harness, and before John has time to register it, they are out of the plane and falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Zdravstvuyte, Vilhjalmur Sigerovich. Priyatno videt' vas Viskhka, eto bylo slishkom dolgo. Kto eto?"
> 
> "Hello, Vilhjálmur Sigerovich. It is good to see you, Vishka, it has been too long. Who is this?"
> 
> \-------------------------------
> 
> "Privet, Arkasha. Eto moy drug Dzhon. Yego russkiy ne ochen' khorosho ..."
> 
> "Hello Arkasha. This is my friend John. His Russian is not very good…"


	28. Crab cakes and coconut buns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vézelay 
> 
> Billy and Lestrade cook, while Billy digests research papers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: mention of infertility in this chapter.

"Greg, can I help you cook dinner?"

The request sounds almost plaintive to Lestrade's ears. He smiles.

"'Course you can. Let's have a look and see what we've got."

They haven't had time to shop. Lestrade trusts that whoever has been looking after them so far will have provided some food, at least. They rattle around in the kitchen, looking for things that go together. There are cans of fish and jars of vegetables, dried herbs, fresh bread, olive oil, rice, flour, pasta. 

Lestrade cuts a thick slice from the end of a loaf.

"Okay, Bill. Break this into fine breadcrumbs."

Billy sets to work, crumbling the bread. Lestrade opens cans of white crabmeat and darker, dressed brown crab, throwing the contents into a bowl and mixing them together.

"Greg, have you seen Bill? Oh. There you are." Anthea looks a little strained as she comes into the main room. "I thought you'd be reading."

When they had arrived at the gîte, there had been a thick envelope addressed to Dr Wiggins. Inside had been a number of academic papers. 

"I've been reading, now I'm processing. Activity helps me think."

He carries on crumbling the bread, making the breadcrumbs as fine as he can. 

"Done that?" Lestrade looks over Billy's shoulder. "Good, that looks about right. Throw about two thirds of it into the bowl with the crab and give it a mix-up."

"What with? I know you're fussy about not using metal spoons for some things…"

"Fingers, Bill. Better for this. Wash your hands first, though."

He grins as Billy looks outraged. 

"I'm not _stupid_ , Greg." He grins. "What are we making, anyway?"

"Crab cakes. Thai, sort of. You'll like them. So, what are you processing? Can you tell me?"

"They're published papers, so I expect it's all right." He looks at Anthea for confirmation. She nods, so he continues. "It's mainly about male infertility, problems with in vitro fertilisation. That sort of thing. It's interesting. Not something I've worked on though. I'm not sure why they need me for it."

Billy mixes the crab and breadcrumbs together as Lestrade adds a sprinkle of dried coriander to the bowl.

"Right, take handfuls of that and make it into little cakes, beef burger size. You should be able to get nine out of this. Then we'll need to put them in the fridge to firm up while we make some rolls."

Billy puts the crab cakes into the fridge. Watches as Lestrade spreads the leftover breadcrumbs on a tray and puts them into the oven to toast. 

"Get the flour out, Bill, and see if you can find baking powder. So the infertility problems in the papers are all male?"

"Yeah." Billy opens a kilo bag of flour. "Where do you want this? In a bowl?"

"Hang on, let me rinse this one. It's big enough."

He rinses and dries the mixing bowl. Billy pours flour in until Lestrade stops him.

"It's not infertility, exactly. More a failure of the embryo to implant. It seems to relate specifically to a problem with the X chromosome of the father. It affects the sperm somehow, and that affects the embryo."

"So it's genetic research? Here, mix this around a bit." 

Lestrade puts a shake of baking powder into the flour. Billy mixes it around with his clean fingers. 

"I like the feel of flour. It's silky."

"It'll feel gluey in a minute."

Lestrade pours most of a can of coconut milk into the flour. Billy laughs as he gets his fingers into the sticky mix. Lestrade takes a little time to tear squares of greaseproof paper and lay them out on the table. 

"I didn't think genetics was your area…"

"It's not. I think we might be working on a drug that will inhibit the gene. So that the embryos can implant."

"Couldn't that be dangerous? Maybe there could be birth defects…"

"I don't know. There's nothing in the papers about it. What shall I do with this? It's stopped being sticky. Smells good. I like coconut."

"Make it into balls and put one on each square of the paper."

Lestrade searches the cupboards and finds pans and a steamer. He loads the coconut dough balls into the steamer, using the paper as ad hoc muffin cases. 

"Can you whisk a couple of eggs, Bill? Just in a cup will do. Use a fork."

While Billy beats the eggs, Lestrade puts rice and water in a pan, adding the few spoonsful of coconut milk left in the can and a bit of the dried coriander. He brings it to the simmer, then stands the steamer with the coconut buns on top. They will cook in the steam from the rice.

"Okay, let's get the crab cakes out of the fridge."

Lestrade takes the crab cakes, dips them in the beaten egg and rolls them in the toasted breadcrumbs. He lays them carefully in a frying pan with a little olive oil. By the time they are golden on both sides, the rice is ready. 

"How do you know when it's cooked? You haven't looked at it."

"You can hear it. Listen."

Billy puts his ear close to the pan, being careful not to set his hair alight. He smiles as he hears the faint sizzle of the rice beginning to dry out on the bottom of the pan.

Lestrade lifts the steamer off the saucepan and sets it on the table. The buns are pure white and springy to the touch. He pours the remaining beaten egg over the top of the rice, where it immediately begins to set. He scrabbles in the cupboard. 

"I thought I saw…ah. There you are."

He triumphantly brings out a bottle of chilli dipping sauce, and drizzles some on top of the now-cooked egg. 

"Et voilà."

Lestrade piles the crab cakes onto a dish, puts the rice on the table still in the saucepan. Billy finds plates and cutlery. 

Anthea has been sitting at the table watching the way the two men work together. It is like a dance, with Lestrade as choreographer. She feels that she is very much the outsider. 

She gets up and opens a bottle of wine, finds glasses. 

"Queenie has a couple more papers for you, Bill. She wasn't able to track down hard copies, so you'll get them as PDF files later. They're more recent."

"I thought there must be more. Is it okay if I talk to Greg about them? Are they published?"

"They've been published online. Talk about them if you want to. Greg, this meal is fabulous. Do you two often cook like this? It looked like fun. "

"Never done it before. He usually just watches."

"You're making me sound really lazy, Greg. I like watching you cook."

"I know you work hard, love. Why'd you want to help today, anyway?"

"I needed the distraction. I know I wasn't much real help."

"I enjoyed watching you getting your fingers mucky. You are definitely going to be helping me again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get Lestrade cooking. Sorry if it got a bit out of hand. Now I want to cook those coconut buns.


	29. Kristof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vladivostok
> 
> Sherlock and John jump out of a plane and meet their new colleague.

Sherlock and John fall for a long time. John forces himself to breathe. He hasn't felt the jerk of the parachute, and realises that Sherlock is _skydiving_. In the dark. With two backpacks and a ten and a half stone man strapped to him. John has just about enough time to be impressed before the chute opens and he starts panicking about landing. _"Keep your eyes open"_ they had told him in training. _"Spot your landing"_. John can't even see the ground, although he knows it is rushing up at him. He tries to relax his knees and ankles, and…

"There." 

Sherlock's voice crackles in his ear. John hadn't realised he had a headset built into his helmet. Hopes he hasn't embarrassed himself too much by swearing aloud. He sees a very faint light, not far away, and almost at the same moment his feet hit the ground. Sherlock has hit first, taking the brunt of the landing, and he rolls first, too. John only needs to go with him. 

They pull in the chute lines, and John realises the canopy is dark blue. It is unlikely that anyone on the ground will have seen it, unless they knew where to look. 

While Sherlock bundles up the chute, John takes the opportunity to switch his backpack around. It would be awkward running with it strapped to his chest, and he might need to use a gun. Sherlock taps him on the shoulder, points towards the trees where the light gleams again. They move at a fast walk through the snow to where their contact is waiting. 

"Kristof Leppälä" 

The man holds out his hand. Sherlock shakes it. 

"Vilhjálmur Sigerson and John Watson. You look as if you are going somewhere, Kristof." 

Kristof smiles tightly, gives John a quick nod of acknowledgement. 

"I have had a visitor. I expect him to return. We must leave straight away." 

Sherlock doesn't seem surprised. 

"Siger…" 

Sherlock cuts him off. 

"Let's go then. You have everything ready?" 

Kristof nods and leads them a little further into the trees. Two snowmobiles wait for them, one loaded with what looks like ordinary, slightly battered suitcases. 

"Good. I will take the cases. John, you'll ride behind Kristof. Be alert." 

"Sh…Vilhjálmur, what…" 

"No time for explanations, John. Shoot to kill if you have to. Don't stop for me if I'm taken out. Kristof knows where we are going, and he is the most important part of this phase. Let's go." 

*********

They drive for what feels like hours to John, staying close to the trees. Dawn breaks, and visibility gradually improves. He wishes there was time to take in the view. His visor darkens in reaction to the sunlight and the snow glare. They carry on driving. He and Kristof lead, Sherlock follows. Kristof seems to know what he is doing, where he is going. John is a little annoyed that everyone seems to know what is going on but him. Sherlock seems to be doing okay. He isn't driving recklessly, is keeping up the pace. 

John begins to relax. He looks over his shoulder just in time to see Sherlock fall sideways off the snowmobile, before he hears the crack of a gunshot. Sherlock's snowmobile carries on travelling for a while before it slides to a halt. 

Kristof hasn't noticed anything. John pounds on his back to get his attention. He slows, then stops. John jumps off, dragging Kristof with him. They crouch behind the snowmobile. John looks around, already armed and ready to fire. He doesn't remember loading his rifle, has done it by instinct. Sherlock is on his feet, running for the trees. Another shot rings out. It misses. _"Single shooter"_ John thinks. _"Not very good"._ He scans the area, spots a glint of light from _something_. Sees movement and fires. The gunman drops. John waits a few moments before running to where he had last seen Sherlock. 

*********

"Which part of _'do not stop for me'_ did you not understand, John?" 

"Did you see me nodding in agreement when you said it? No, I thought not. You promised you wouldn't leave me behind. I made the same promise to you. Just a bit quieter." 

"We need to get Kristof moving." 

"As soon as you climb up behind him, we will." 

John's assessment of the gunman as 'not very good' had been correct. Sherlock has been hit, but the bullet has only passed through the fleshy part of his upper arm. John has glued and bandaged it quickly, giving thanks for the southerly location of Vladivostok, and the unusually warm weather. The temperature is no lower than minus ten, he estimates. Still cold, but not deadly cold. At least, not immediately deadly. He helps Sherlock onto Kristof's pillion seat, and takes the driver's seat on the other vehicle himself. They move off again. John has no idea where he is going. He hopes no one else takes a pot-shot at them. He doesn't have any free hands, and Sherlock will have difficulty handling a rifle, now. 

They drive on with no more incidents. It seems odd to John that there was only one gunman, and that the gunman went for Sherlock. _"Odd that he knew where to position himself, too."_ he thinks. Eventually they pull into a service station, miles from anywhere, and Kristof pulls a set of car keys out of his pocket. The car is a Lada Granta. It is nondescript grey and looks as if it has been on the road for a week without a clean. They pile in and Kristof heads them towards Vladivostok. 

"Er, shouldn't we be going in the opposite direction?" 

John feels certain they should be going away from the city, not towards it. 

"No. We would be expected to go that way, so we are going this way. Don't worry, John." 

John wishes he knew more about the mission. He knows all about "need to know", but he thinks he _needs to know._

*********

"Why couldn't you have just told me we were going to get a train?" 

"You didn't need to know, John. If you are captured, the less you know about what comes next the better." 

"What about if _you're_ captured?" 

John immediately regrets asking the question when Sherlock's face adopts the cold mask he had been prone to wearing in the aftermath of "the performance". 

"Sorry. I know you can stand up to questioning. Sorry." 

"Get some rest, John. You're wound up tight." 

They are on the Trans-Siberian Railway, in a second class sleeper. Queenie has made the arrangements, and has booked all four bunks in the compartment, but, this being Siberia, that doesn't mean that a fourth, unknown person might not be squeezed in once the guard realises there is an unused bunk. 

"Vilhjálmur, how long are we going to be on this train for?" 

"Five days, John. Plenty of time to practice your Russian. We should take turns staying awake. Never know who else might be aboard." 

"Five days. Five _days?_ " 

"It's a big country, John. You'll see some interesting sights." 

"Oh good. I like a bit of sightseeing." 

"Sarcasm, John?" 

"Just a bit." 


	30. Je t'aime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vézelay 
> 
> Billy and Greg talk about feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one of my occasional sexy chapters. You can skip it if you don't like embarrassingly badly-written sex scenes.

Lestrade lies awake listening to Billy's soft snuffly breathing. He smiles, kisses the scruffy black hair. _"He looks young today"_ he thinks. _"Like he did when we first…"_. He catches his breath as Billy moves, snuggling into him, nuzzling his throat. Billy can only do this lying down, he is so much taller than Lestrade.

"Are you awake, Bill?"

"Mm. Trying to get closer."

Lestrade laughs, quietly. 

"If you get any closer, you'll be inside… " his voice cracks. "I meant…"

"Mm. I want to."

"Bill…"

"I want to be inside you. I want you to be…You asked if I still fancy you, the other day. Do you? Still fancy me, I mean?"

"I have never stopped fancying you. I've been trying not to stifle you, Bill. I'm an old man. You need…"

"Gregor Lestrade, don't you dare do this again. Don't tell me what I need. I _know_ what I need."

Lestrade shivers. Billy is beautiful when he is angry. 

"What do you need then, Billy? Tell me. _Tell me._ "

"I need you. I need all the bits of you. The cuddles, the kisses, the smell of you, the taste of you. I need the feel of your skin. I need your hair to get my hands into. I don't care if it's silver, I love that it's silver. I need to be held tight by your arms. I feel safe. They're strong. I need you to make me enjoy eating. I love it when you cook for me. I need your bass backing up my Strat. I need your smiles. They dazzle me. I need your growly voice telling me off, singing to me, speaking French to me in bed. I need your hands on me. I need your scars and your tattoo. I need your mouth on me. I need your cock in me…"

"All right, Bill. All right."

"I need you, Greg."

"You've got me. Tu m'as. Tu as tout de moi. Corps, l'esprit, le cœur et l'âme. Je t'aime, Billy, je t'aime."

"Je t'aime. I know that. I love you too, Greg."

Billy shuffles up the bed a bit, as Lestrade turns and rests on one elbow. They are face to face and Lestrade, unusually for him, makes the first move. He runs his fingers across Billy's shoulder, where his t-shirt has slipped. The touch is feather light, not quite touching the skin, just catching the fine, downy hairs. Billy shivers. 

"More…"

Lestrade moves his fingertips down Billy's arm, up again, over Billy's abdomen, under the t-shirt. He brushes over a nipple, eliciting a little gasp. He hasn't taken his eyes from Billy's face. His fingers slip lower again, tracing Billy's ribs and the scar left from a bullet he'd taken for someone else, years back. Billy closes his eyes, goes still. He hates the scar, and the corresponding exit scar that mars the angel-wing tattoo on his back. He shudders, remembering how he got them.

"Where've you gone, Billy?"

"Sorry. It's the scars. They still bother me."

"Mine don't seem to bother you…"

"They're yours, that's why."

"And that's why I love yours, Billy. Because they're yours. You earned them honourably, Billy. Heroically. I got mine being stupid and reckless. You got yours saving a life. Never be ashamed of them."

"Most of the time it's all right. It's just when you look at me. When we're together like this … you're so lovely, Greg. I feel ugly."

"Don't Bill. Is that why you've been off me? Why you won't let me see you undressed? Because you don't like me _looking_ at you?"

Billy's voice is tiny. He buries his face in Lestrade's shoulder. 

"I can't even look at the scars myself, sometimes. I can't bear it when you get that look on your face. I saw you cry over them once. When you thought I wasn't looking."

"I was just upset about how much that bastard hurt you. Not what the scars look like. Oh, Billy. Why didn't you just tell me what you were worried about? I thought…"

Lestrade gently pushes Billy onto his back, bends over him and pushes the t-shirt up and off. He kisses the scar, gently.

"Billy. I want you. Now. Scars and all. Like this, face to face. No more hiding."

He fumbles in the bedside drawer for his small, flat tin of Vaseline, moves to kneel between Billy's thighs, and Billy bends his knees, feet flat on the bed. Billy raises his hips so Lestrade can slide a vaselined finger into him, then another. He gasps as Lestrade moves his fingers, making him ready. Lestrade uses his other hand to smear Vaseline on his cock, then grasps Billy's hip to hold him still as he pushes a third finger in. 

Billy moans, rocking himself on Lestrade's fingers. 

"Now, Greg. Please."

Lestrade leans forward, kisses the scar again, then lifts Billy's hips to help as he nudges his cock forward, sliding his fingers out. Billy groans and lets Lestrade take his weight on his hands and thighs as he lifts his legs, locking them around Lestrade's waist. His movement pushes him forward, taking Lestrade deeper. They rock gently together for a while, until it is too much for Lestrade, and he moves faster, gripping Billy's thighs for traction. Billy's cock is trapped between their bodies, and the friction from Lestrade's belly is enough to make him come, as Lestrade gasps and climaxes.

They slowly move apart, sagging with relief and exhaustion. It has been a long time for both of them. Lestrade grabs tissues from the bedside drawer and cleans up the worst of the mess. He flops down next to Billy. Kisses the scar on his ribs again.

"All right?"

"Brilliant."

They sleep face to face, skin to skin, arms tight around each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could this chapter just be here to get Greg and Billy properly re-established before I do something horrible to them again? Would I be that cruel?
> 
>  
> 
> Someone asked me if there is a ship tag for these guys. I'm going for #Greggins, although #Billstrade has a nice ring to it, too.


	31. Bukhlyor and Pozi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ulan Ude, Siberia

John is glad to be on the train. He only has to look out of the window to see that the temperature has dropped. It is probably close to the -30°C that Sherlock had promised him, outside. The train has stopped briefly at Ulan Ude, and there has been a great deal of to-ing and fro-ing of passengers. If John had been on holiday, he would have probably done what many of the obvious tourists are doing, and broken his journey here to take a bus trip to Lake Baikal, apparently the deepest and oldest lake in the world, and containing twenty percent of the world's fresh water. There wouldn't be much to interest him in the town itself, apart from perhaps the largest statue of Lenin's head in the world. 

John looks at the station platform with interest, watches what looks like a street market, and gets a sudden fright when he realises that a tall figure haggling at one of the food stalls is Sherlock. He hadn't noticed him leaving the carriage.

"What does the idiot think he's doing? The train will go without him!"

He jumps up to follow Sherlock, but Kristof puts a hand on his arm to restrain him.

"It is how they do things in Siberia, Dr Watson. The food on the train is not as good as the food from the vendors. Look, he is coming back."

Sherlock proves him right by jumping back on the train with a few minutes to spare before it leaves. 

"What have you got there?"

"Lunch. It's meat broth and dumplings. Bukhlyor and Pozi."

"Okay. What's in the bottle?"

"Cedar oil. This is the only place you can get it. It is a very localised market. It's different from the cedar wood oil that you can get in other places. It's edible, apparently. I thought it would make a good present for Lestrade."

"That's really thoughtful, Vishka. He'll be delighted with it. If we can get it to him without smashing it…"

"Be positive, John. Anyway, he'll have the bother of getting it home himself."

"You probably ought to tell him to get it analysed before he uses it, though. Just in case."

"Perhaps you are right. Wouldn't want to poison him."

Kristof has been fairly quiet up until now, not joining in with conversation much. John thinks Kristof has been watching him too closely. He feels his eyes on him when he isn't looking. He can't remember whether Sherlock had introduced him as 'Dr Watson' or just 'John Watson', either, and it bothers him.

Kristof smiles at Sherlock.

"Who is Lestrade?"

"A friend of mine who likes to cook."

The dumplings are as big as John's palm, steamed and filled with meat. The broth is good, and there is enough food for the three men to feel pleasantly full. John is surprised to see Sherlock eating cheerfully. 

"You're being a tourist, aren't you?"

"Yes, of course. Tourists buy souvenirs. Lestrade will like the oil. Even if only for its novelty value."

After they have eaten, Sherlock settles down to rest. His arm hurts, but he doesn't choose to let John know that. He will only fuss. John and Kristof go to the dining car and get tea. They buy three cups, glasses, really, with metal holders, and three tea bags. They fill the cups from a water boiler and take them back to their carriage. They will keep the cups for the remainder of the journey. The boiling water is free, and Kristof has known what to expect, and has brought along tea bags and sugar. They will have to get used to taking tea without milk. 

Sherlock has been dozing, but he wakes up when they give him his tea. He chats animatedly to Kristof in Russian, or possibly Finnish. John doesn't even try to follow the conversation. He obviously doesn't _need to know_ what they are talking about. He is impressed at Sherlock's command of languages, though. 

He watches the two men. Kristof is less animated than Sherlock, and he doesn't smile much. The Finn is clearly very tense. He has fatigue lines around his light grey eyes, and his pale skin looks tight over his cheekbones. 

John pulls a deck of cards out of his pocket and plays patience for a while, looks out of the window for a while. The scenery doesn't change much, and it soon grows dark. He dozes off, with the quiet buzz of conversation in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who has been wondering, I have at last drafted the final chapter of this story. 
> 
> This has been an interesting one to research. I think there will be at least two more 'big' stories in this series, and maybe some little extras.


	32. Disturbed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vézelay 
> 
> Billy remembers something that worries Mycroft.

Billy is tired and twitchy. Triplicity have been in Vézelay for a day and a half, and they have one more night before leaving for the next stop on their tour. They had played their second gig last night, three songs only. Billy had flat-out refused to play the song that had upset him in Rouen. Anthea had been angry, wanted to over-rule him, but Lestrade had stood up for him, despite his own feeling that they were throwing out their best song. The gig had gone well, nonetheless, and they had all enjoyed the show the other performers put on, staying until the last act had finished. 

Lestrade is a bit of a night-owl at the best of times. Hyped-up, after a gig, it is the early hours of the morning before he is tired. Billy stays up with him, despite having some lingering bellyache, and gets up late the next morning. 

He sits at the table reading one of the papers Queenie has emailed him. He glances at the thumbnail photographs of the authors on the front page, and freezes. He sends a text message.

 

**To:SH : Can we talk? BW**

**To:BW: Sorry Doc. He's unavailable for a few days. QF**

**To:QF: Thanks Queenie. I don't suppose it matters, really. Sorry for disturbing you. BW**

**To:BW: No worries, Doc. QF**

*********

Lestrade has been out shopping. As he turns into the narrow lane to the gîte he hears what can only be described as a cacophony. He gets closer to the house, and the racket settles into something more recognisable, but hardly less pleasant. David Draiman's voice can just be made out above the heavy metal music, augmented, loudly, by Billy's guitar. Lestrade likes metal music, but his taste doesn't extend to Disturbed. He knows Billy likes the band, knows he likes loud music, but this is ridiculous. 

Anthea is sitting in the garden, hands over her ears. 

"What's going on? I didn't know we had a stereo."

"He's running his iPad through one of the amps. I think he's upset about something. He tried to get in touch with Sherlock earlier, but Queenie intercepted his text. Sherlock and John are running dark. They'll be out of contact for probably another four days."

"I'll talk to him."

"Mind you don't go deaf."

Lestrade gives Anthea the shopping to put away, and goes indoors, hands over his ears. Billy is in the living room, crouched over his guitar in a corner. 

"Billy. BILLY!"

Billy doesn't hear him. Doesn't see him either. His eyes are screwed shut. 

Lestrade crosses to the amps, dials the volume down.

"Billy. What the hell? You'll ruin your hearing. What's up, mate?"

"Greg?"

"What's wrong, Billy?"

"I needed to thrash a bit, Greg. Sorry."

"You drove Anthea out…"

"Yeah. I know. I'll switch it off."

"You don't have to. Just not so loud, eh?"

"It only works if it's loud."

"You needing something, mate? Is it from what she gave you?"

"Yeah, no, not because of her giving me roofies…"

"You reckon that's what it was?"

"Yeah. The memory thing. I know about drugs, Greg."

"I can't make out why she gave it to you."

"She needed to knock me out for some reason. I can't think why, though. I can't find any marks on myself anywhere. I haven't been hurt."

"She says she wanted to help you sleep."

"There's better ways."

"What's made you twitchy, Bill? If it's not that?"

"One of the papers Queenie sent me. It's a theoretical study by a Dr Siger Holmes. I wonder if he's related to our Holmeses? Anyway, I recognised him from his picture, and it triggered something else."

"Let's go outside for a cigarette. Then you can tell me."

They go out, passing Anthea as she brings the shopping in. She smiles at Billy. 

"Is it safe for me to go in now?"

He nods

"Yeah. I've thrashed it out of my system."

Anthea breathes an exaggerated sigh of relief. 

"Do you two want coffee? I'm going to make some."

Lestrade shakes his head

"There's some beers in that blue bag. Well have a couple of those."

Anthea hands over two cans, and takes everything else inside.

Billy and Lestrade walk around to the back of the gîte, where there is a bench seat, quite a way from the house. 

"So, talk to me."

"It's complicated. You don't know the background… I started getting pains in my stomach at about the same time I started puberty. I was a late starter, Greg, I'd turned sixteen before I started growing pubic hair, even. The pains were low down, on the right side. They'd last for a few days,then they'd stop and I'd be all right for a couple of months. Then they'd come back again. They were bad, Greg. The doctors thought it was a grumbling appendix, and when I was twenty one, they took it out. The pains never came back after that. Until now. It's the same pain, Greg. I'm sure of it. But it's on the left side this time."

Billy takes a swig of his beer, continues.

"There was a doctor who came to look at me. A consultant. I don't think I ever heard his name. Don't remember it, anyway, and my memory's usually good. He was really interested in my symptoms, because of the regularity of the pains. It was unusual, apparently. I had low levels of testosterone in my blood, as well. He said that probably wasn't related, but it might explain the late onset of puberty. The paper I've been reading is by the same man. There's a picture of him. He's older, a bit, but it's definitely him. He had this crowd of medical students with him. Seeing his picture on the paper triggered the memory. Greg, I'm sure the bloke that stabbed Anthea was one of those students."

Lestrade taps his beer can against his teeth. 

"Let me get this straight, Billy. There's a doctor who was interested in you while you were at Cambridge? And you think he could be Siger Holmes? If you were twenty one, that must have been just before…"

"Before I was sent down, yeah. That happened about three months after the operation."

"Okay, and this doctor was associated with the attacker in Paris?"

"Yeah. You know my memory is good, Greg. At least, when I haven't been drugged. It's almost eidetic, even now. It was definitely him."

"I believe you, Billy. The other matter of interest is the paper you've been reading. If the doctor you saw wrote the paper, it means he's connected to this mission in some way. Maybe loosely, but still connected. I need to to talk to Sherlock. The name Siger Holmes rings a bell. Fuck. Sherlock's running dark."

"Yeah. I know. I tried to text him earlier and got an answer from Queenie."

"Hmm. Maybe I should talk to Mycroft. Leave it with me for a bit, Billy."

*********

_"Mycroft Holmes"_

"Mycroft, it's Lestrade. I need to speak privately to you. It's important."

Lestrade hears a clicking sound on the line.

_"One moment, Gregor. I need to activate a function on your phone. I am sending you an encrypted message. Reply to it with an empty message."_

Lestrade gets a text from an unknown number and sends a reply, as instructed. In moments his phone lights up.

_"Go ahead Gregor. Your phone is isolated from Queenie's surveillance system."_

"Right. There's a couple of things that have got Billy upset…"

_"If you are referring to Colonel Smith drugging Dr Wiggins, I can ensure you that she has been reprimanded…"_

"I wasn't, but…look, can we come back to that? There's something else. Are you aware that Billy has a phenomenal memory?"

_"I am indeed. It is a great asset to him in his work."_

"And his art. Anyway, he was reading a paper Queenie had sent him and it triggered a memory. He remembers a consultant that visited him in hospital when he had his appendix out…"

_"A memory from ten years ago? Interesting."_

"Yeah. You know what else is interesting? That you have that information instantly available."

_"I also have a good memory, Gregor. And naturally, I have a file on Dr Wiggins. As I do on every member of the team."_

"Of course you do. Right, as I was saying, he remembers this consultant. And his crowd of student hangers-on. He thinks…he's _sure_ that one of those students is the bloke that knifed Anthea in Paris."

There is silence on the end of the line. 

"Mycroft? You still there?"

_"Yes, Gregor. Did Dr Wiggins happen to recall the name of the consultant?"_

"No. But the paper he was reading was by a Dr Siger Holmes. He's sure it's the same man. There's a picture of him on the paper. Billy isn't stupid. Now he's wondering whether Siger Holmes is related to you and his nibs. The name's nagging at me, as well. It'll come to me, Mycroft. There's something else…"

_"Siger Holmes is a relative, Gregor. He is retired, but still publishes papers occasionally."_

"Right. Okay. You need to check whether he's involved with his ex-student, then. And listen, Billy is wondering why he's suddenly getting left-handed appendicitis. When he had his appendix out ten years back. And he's wondering why Anthea needed to knock him out with Rohypnol. He won't stop wondering. You know him. If he's in danger, Mycroft…"

_"Gregor. I will speak to you personally, soon. Pack up your things and be ready to move within the hour. Dr Wiggins is indeed in danger, and I need to get him out of France as soon as possible. Try not to alarm him. "_

"All right, Mycroft. You do realise I'm not leaving his side now? I'm not going back to London without him. Not if he's in danger."

_"We can discuss terms later, Gregor. For now, of course you will go with him."_

"You'll speak to Anthea?"

_"Yes. And thank you for contacting me so promptly. Thank Dr Wiggins, too. His information is very helpful."_

The phone clicks and goes dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disturbed: Stricken: <http://youtu.be/3moLkjvhEu0>
> 
> Disturbed: Pain Redefined: <http://youtu.be/04jfcIi4LoM>
> 
> Disturbed: Prayer: <http://youtu.be/DWSlOCEzRGo>


	33. On the move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In transit: Vézelay to Lausanne

Lestrade switches off his phone after speaking to Mycroft Holmes and _runs_ into the house. He sees Anthea on the phone, guesses Mycroft is on the line. Is relieved to be able to get to Billy before Anthea can start giving him orders and upsetting him more than he already is. 

Lestrade takes charge of Billy, leaving Anthea to sort herself out. He packs up the essentials, clothes, electronica, other, more personal items. He piles Billy's papers and sketchbook into his own duffel bag. He sets Billy to work to pack up guitars and leads. Billy won't leave the amplifiers. Lestrade tries to argue with him, sees that Billy isn't really thinking straight, is panicking. He gives in and tells him to bring them. They pile everything into the boot of the 2CV and move off. 

They are only going a few miles, to where there is enough open space to land a helicopter safely. Queenie is tracking Anthea's GPS, directing them to a field just off the road. There are no crops to disturb, and the 2CV lives up to its reputation as the French farmer's favourite car, dealing with ruts and plough furrows easily. Anthea assures them that the helicopter will be a small one, a Puma transporter. When it finally appears overhead, Lestrade is surprised at how big it is. He has only been in a police "eye in the sky" chopper before, and that was a tiny toy thing compared to this. 

Billy is terrified. He doesn't want to run under the moving rotor blades. He thinks he is too tall. He is afraid they will hit him. Lestrade doesn't mess about, he picks him up and carries him, almost throwing him aboard. 

Anthea barks orders at the crew, who snap to it and help with unloading the car, stowing everything carefully in the body of the helicopter. Billy and Lestrade are given helmets with two-way radio sets and shown how to use them to speak to each other and the crew. They buckle in, and the helicopter lifts them into the air. 

Billy sits with his head between his knees. He feels sick, and he is scared. He holds on to Lestrade's hand with a grip so tight it leaves bruises. Lestrade doesn't mind. He is glad to be in the air, glad to be on the move.


	34. Chrysanthemums and koi carp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lausanne, Switzerland
> 
> Lestrade and Billy meet Queenie.

The helicopter lands at a small civic airport, and Anthea sets about barking orders again. Lestrade watches as their bags and music kit are loaded into a nondescript-looking white minibus. Once everything is loaded, he helps Billy out of the chopper. The pilot has shut off the engines, and Billy doesn't panic about getting hit by spinning rotor blades this time.

They climb into the minibus, fasten their seatbelts and the driver starts the engine.

"It's not far, but there isn't a helipad." Anthea is still on alert. Still tense. "We'll be safe once we're at the complex. Security is good there."

The drive takes a little under half an hour. They approach the complex along a wide, open road, not very well travelled by the look of the snow on it. There are trees on both sides of the road, but they are set well back, so as to look scenic without offering shelter to anyone who might be trying to approach the complex stealthily. There is a very big fence, with two sets of gates, several hundred yards apart, guarded by uniformed security officers. 

'It looks like a prison."

Lestrade has seen a _lot_ of prisons in his time as a police officer. 

"Only from the outside. It's lovely inside."

Anthea smiles reassuringly. 

All Billy can see is snow, and a wide, low building faced in white stone that blends into the snow. 

The bus driver pulls up outside a set of glass doors, which whisk open automatically at their approach. Anthea stalks to a reception desk, where it is obvious she is expected. The receptionist hands her a plastic key card, which she signs for. She beckons Lestrade and Billy over, and they sign for their own key cards. 

"Don't lose these. You need them to get into almost everywhere. Leave your luggage here. It will be taken to your quarters. There's someone you should meet before we do anything else. I expect we'll need to go and look for…"

"No need, Boss. Good to see you safe."

The voice comes from behind them. Someone has crept up very quietly. Lestrade spins, looks down. Smiles. 

"Queenie?"

He holds out his hand to shake Queenie's, then grimaces as she grips it hard, using her grip on him to lever herself out of her electric wheelchair. 

"Let me just…" She straightens leg braces, locking the knees, stands and looks Lestrade directly in the eyes. "That's better."

"Nearly broke my hand, Queenie."

Lestrade gives her a reproachful look, but he can't sustain it. It morphs into a wide, tooth-flashing grin.

"Oh, my. Even prettier in the flesh. Hello, Chief."

Lestrade _blushes_. Queenie is six foot of blonde gothic Lolita. Industrial boots, striped over-the-knee socks, short, full skirt and a tight, short-sleeved blouse showing a bit of cleavage. Lestrade realises that four inches at least of the six feet is thick rubber boot soles. 

"Behave yourself, Queenie."

Anthea smiles as she hugs the technician. 

"Girl's got to have a bit of fun, Boss." She turns to Billy. "It's rude to stare, you know, Dr Wiggins."

"Sorry. I was looking at your tattoos. They're brilliant."

Queenie has full sleeve designs on both arms. Chrysanthemums and koi carp. 

"Yakuza designs. I've heard you're a bit good at drawing flash, Doc."

"Yeah. I drew my own. And his." He nods towards Lestrade. 

"Maybe we can compare our ink, Chief…"

"Not a chance, Queenie."

Lestrade's tattoos cover scars on parts of his body very few people get to see. 

Anthea laughs. 

"Leave the poor man alone, Queenie. Greg, Bill, I'd like you to meet Queenie Fletcher. Our tech officer. And my partner."


	35. Bored/Not Bored

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trans-Siberian Railway: Irkutsk to Krasnoyarsk

John Watson is bored out of his mind. He has always preferred trains to planes, but is rapidly revising that preference. The landscape is boring. Trees and snow. Snow and trees. His companions are boring. The food is boring, except when Sherlock surprises him with local delicacies. John supposes he is boring, too. He sleeps as much as he can. He has managed to sleep right through the six hours it took to get from Ulan Ude to Irkutsk, and the first couple of hours of the sixteen hour leg from Irkutsk to Krasnoyarsk. 

They have been lucky so far. The fourth bunk in their carriage has remained empty. John wonders how long their luck will hold out. They still have fourteen hours until Krasnoyarsk, twelve to Novosibirsk, and a final eighteen hour haul to Yekaterinburg, where they will get a plane. 

They have been out of contact with anyone for the whole of the time since leaving Arkady Yegorov. John wonders how Sherlock and Arkady met. They certainly seemed very friendly. He sighs quietly, fidgets a bit, trying to get comfortable. Settles in for the next stretch of boredom.

*********

Sherlock is not bored. He is trying very hard not to let John know how much pain his arm is giving him, and the effort is almost too much for him. His arm feels hot, and he guesses it is probably infected. Eventually, he gives in. 

"John, could you take a look at my arm, please?"

"Is it bothering you?"

"Obviously. Feels a bit warm."

"Okay, take your jacket and jumper off, and pull the arm out of your… Shit. Why didn't you say it was bleeding again? I don't know if I've got enough kit left."

"I have a first aid kit. You will need to move, Vilhjálmur, so I can get my case out from under the bunk."

Kristof pulls out a suitcase and opens it. He hands John a well-stocked first aid kit. John cuts Sherlock's shirt sleeve off, earning himself a glare, and peers at the wound. It is red, with some swelling, but no pus or other nastiness. 

"Doesn't look too bad. Are you allergic to penicillin?"

"No. Do you have some?"

"Yes. Came prepared. Got Paramorph as well. And Kristof here has got plenty of dressings. We'll sort you out between us."

"It's actually quite painful, John. Don't you have any morphine?"

"Nice try, Vishka."

"I don't know what you mean, John."

"Put your cardigan back on and try to get some sleep."

"Not a cardigan, John."

"Cardigan."

*********

Kristof Leppälä is not bored. He is anxious. He is a scientist, not an adventurer. He wants to be out of Russia, badly. He wants to be in a nice, well-equipped lab, working on his little project which has suddenly attracted the attention of two very powerful men, one of whom he has met and instantly feared. The other, he has not met, and he fears him more. He doesn't want to be on the run, or on a train. His only consolation is that he isn't still on a snowmobile being shot at.

He is having trouble reading his companions. The short blond Englishman, the doctor, moves like a soldier. The other seems to be English, too, but has an oddness of inflection and a curious lack of accent that throws a little doubt on his origins. Couple that with his Icelandic name, given a curious Russian contraction by his friend, and what is left is confusion.

He joins John Watson in a game of cards while Vilhjálmur Sigerson sleeps. It is a way of passing the time.


	36. Luck runs out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trans-Siberian Railway, Krasnoyarsk to Novosibirsk

At Krasnoyarsk, Sherlock gets off the train again, to buy more food. He comes back with mutton dumplings and bread, and is trailed by a heavily-built man who follows him right into their compartment. Their luck in keeping the fourth bunk empty has finally run out. 

The man introduces himself as Pyotr Andreevich. He is travelling to Yekaterinburg, he says, for work. He is a talker, and clearly wants to practice his English on his travelling companions. He asks a lot of questions, and starts to get on Sherlock's nerves very quickly. Sherlock is tired, and his arm hurts a lot. He would really like John to have another look at it, but can't ask while Andreevich is in the compartment. He isn't sure if he can keep himself from tying the man up and gagging him for the rest of the thirty hours until Yekaterinburg. 

Sherlock envies John's ability to sleep anywhere. He is currently sleeping soundly on the bunk above him. 

Andreevich's chatter, combined with John's snuffles and fidgeting suddenly all become too much. 

"Kristof, will you come and get tea with me please? I can't stand the sound of John snoring any longer."

"Of course, Vilhjálmur. Please excuse us, Pyotr."

They leave the compartment, taking their three cups and Andreevich's. It doesn't hurt to be polite. While Kristof fills the cups, Sherlock queues for the lavatory. Once inside, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and switches it on. 

_"Yegorov"_

"Arkasha, we have a fourth in our compartment. Pyotr Andreevich, but I'm not convinced that is actually his name. Shortish, John's height. Heavy. Wavy, dark brown hair, light brown eyes with a flaw in the left iris. Scar on left cheek, just below the ear, tip of left earlobe missing. Talks too much. Check him out?"

_"Da, Vishka. Be careful. Call me again in one hour."_

"Spasiba, Arkasha. One hour."

He turns off the phone and joins Kristof at the water boiler. They walk back toward the compartment.

*********

John is still lying on the upper bunk. He is not asleep. He is, however, tied thoroughly hand and foot, and gagged. He sees Sherlock shoulder the compartment door open and enter, leaning to counter the motion of the train, concentrating on not spilling the two cups of hot tea he is carrying in one hand. John wriggles, kicks at the carriage wall, tries to get Sherlock's attention, but he is too late. Andreevich hits Sherlock behind the ear with his gun and knocks him unconscious. As he falls, Andreevich steps over him and hauls Kristof into the compartment. Kristof is still holding a cup in each hand, and the hot tea spills onto Sherlock. He does not try to defend himself as Andreevich ties and gags him.

*********

Sherlock wakes, groggy, nauseous. His head hurts, and his arm hurts more. The skin on his cheek and neck feels tight. He tries to move, realises he is bound and lying on the bunk. He opens his eyes slowly. They are gummy enough to suggest that he has been unconscious for some time. _"How long? Have I missed the check in with Arkady?"_ he thinks.

"Good afternoon, Mr Sigerson. So glad to see you are awake."

"How long have I been unconscious?"

"Long enough for Dr Leppälä and me to have a little chat. I am inclined to believe that he does not know who you or your friend are. But he does know who you are working for. My employer will be very interested in that piece of news."

"Is my…friend…injured?"

Sherlock hears John moving a little on the upper bunk. _"Alive"_ he thinks. 

"Not much. Not as much as you. Of course, I did not cause _all_ your injuries. It seems someone shot you, Mr Sigerson."

"Who are you working for? What do you want?"

"You surely do not expect me to tell you who I am working for?"

Andreevich chuckles nastily. 

"As to what I want, well, that is going to be obvious, so there is no harm in telling you. I want Kristov Leppälä, and his interesting suitcases. We will be leaving this train at Novosibirsk. You, and your friend, will remain aboard. I expect that you may manage to free yourselves before you reach Yekaterinburg, but that will not help you, and it will not harm me. I have confiscated your cell phones, of course."

At that moment, as if on cue, Sherlock's phone rings, shockingly loud in the quiet compartment. Andreevich pulls it from his pocket. Reads the caller ID aloud. 

"Arkady Yegorov. The last person you spoke to on this phone. Answer him. Tell him everything is fine. No tricks, or I shoot your friend a little."

He smiles nastily, thumbs the phone screen, touches the 'speaker' button. 

"Hello, Arkady."

_"Did you forget you were meant to call me? Is everything all right?"_

"Sorry, Arkady. Must have slipped my mind. Everything is fine."

_"You sound tired, Vilhjálmur. Such a boring journey. Is John enjoying the train ride?"_

"He is bored with it, Arkady. He has done nothing but lie on the bunk since Krasnoyarsk."

_"Yes. Well, you should try to rest, too. It's a long way yet to Yekaterinburg. Call me again when you arrive."_

"Yes, of course, Arkady."

_"Goodbye then."_

"Goodbye."

Andreevich thumbs off the phone and powers it down. He puts it back in his own pocket. 

"Now, I'm going to gag you, Mr Sigerson, like your friends, and we will have a nice, quiet journey to Novosibirsk."


	37. Names are important

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Novosibirsk 
> 
> John and Sherlock are in big trouble. Arkady is a guardian angel.

The train pulls into the station at Novosibirsk and the normal to-ing and fro-ing of passengers starts. Andreevich hauls Kristof to his feet and hustles him out of the carriage, warning him again to be silent if he knows what is good for him. Kristof doesn't struggle. He knows there is nothing he can do. He just hopes that Andreevich doesn't take it into his head to shoot Sherlock and John before he leaves the train. He hopes they will escape and come and find him. 

John struggles to free himself from the ropes he has been tied with. He doesn't remember being tied up, thinks Andreevich must have knocked him out, but doesn't feel as if he's been hit hard, the way Sherlock was. The ropes don't even loosen. He can't hear Sherlock moving at all in the bunk below him. He hasn't heard him moving much at all since he had answered the phone call, hours ago. He hopes he is all right. 

The minutes tick away. The train is only scheduled to stop at Novosibirsk for forty minutes. If John can't get free, they will be in bigger trouble than they already are. The next stop is Yekaterinburg, eighteen hours away. 

John hears shouting in the corridor, and the carriage door is thrown open. Two men in police uniform barge in. One of them pulls out Sherlock's backpack from under the bunk, then John's. The other pulls the gagging tape off John's mouth, and cuts his bonds. The two men help John to his feet, and then Arkady Yegorov is filling up the carriage, ripping the gag from Sherlock, lifting him from the bunk and carrying him out. John follows, slowly, his feet and legs in agony from being bound for so long. Not a word has been spoken.

*********

"So you're a policeman."

"Da."

"You remind me of another policeman…"

"Da. Gregor Lestrade. Vishka has a…'type', I think you call it."

John lets that go by him. He doesn't want to think along _those_ lines just yet. 

"You know Greg?"

"Da. Yes. I know him."

John and Arkady are sitting next each other on a private plane. Kristof sits opposite them, cuffed to the arm of his seat. Arkady had been apologetic, but explained that until he could be sure Kristof had not been complicit in his own, fortunately foiled, kidnapping, he could not be allowed to roam free. Kristof is philosophical about it. He much prefers being cuffed in the company of John, Sherlock and Arkady to being held at gunpoint by Andreevich.

Sherlock is lying, wrapped in blankets, in a reclined seat behind John's. He has slept, on and off, since being carried aboard. John had practically fought with Arkady to get near enough to examine him. He is sure he is concussed, from the pistol-whipping, he is blistered where the tea scalded him, and John is worried that the infection in his gunshot wound is spreading. He does what he can, cleaning the wound, treating the blisters, giving more antibiotics. Arkady lets him, finally convinced he means no harm. 

They are on the final leg of the flight to Lausanne. They have been in the air for hours, and in less than two more they will be in Switzerland, where Sherlock will get proper medical treatment. 

"How did you know we were in trouble?"

"He called me when Andreevich joined you. We arranged for him to call back in one hour. When he did not, I suspected trouble, and called him."

"I heard that. Andreevich had you on speaker. He didn't say anything to tip you off…"

"He did. He called me Arkady."

"That's your name. Isn't it?"

"Da. Yes, but you do not understand, we do not use formal names. Unless he is angry with me. He should have called me Arkasha. I knew something was wrong. I called in favours. A plane to Novosibirsk. Local police to help. There was barely enough time."

"Lestrade would have done the same thing. Bloody hell, he would have tipped him off the same way. He'd have called him Greg." He laughs, tightly. "You're like a pair of guardian angels…"

"Grisha and I, we have things in common…"

"Grisha?"

"Da. He is my friend. We get drunk together, laugh together. Fight sometimes…"

"Oh, I'd love to see that."

"You might. I will be joining you. Better to stay out of Russia for a time, I think."

John smiles. Wonders if they fight over Sherlock. The smile fades. 

"What are you to Vishka, John?"

"Don't really know. Friends. We…"

"Lovers? You do not like to think of him with me. Or with Grisha, I think?"

"I didn't realise he had a type. I'd kind of come to terms with the idea of him and Lestrade. He tells me not to compare myself to him. But now there's you…"

"It was a long time ago, Vanya. For me, at least. Grisha, I do not know."

"He's got someone. You'll meet him, if you're joining us. Be careful around Bill. Greg's very protective."

"Bill. It is an informal name?"

"No. It's his actual given name. I doubt there's a Russian equivalent."

"I will find one, if we are to be friends. Names are important, Vanya."

"I suppose they are. I don't know what to call you."

"Arkasha, if you think you will be my friend. Arkady, if you wish to be formal and polite. Major Yegorov if you do not wish to be so polite…"

"You've already started calling me Vanya…"

"Da. You are Vishka's friend. And Grisha's, I think. If you would prefer me to call you John, I will."

"I think John, for now, Arkady. Until I get to know you."

Arkady grins, noticing and deciding to ignore the snub. 

"Da. John, then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear. Green-eyed monster alert.


	38. You will not argue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lausanne, Switzerland 
> 
> Both teams are finally in the same place. Billy learns something that upsets him, and makes a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The early part of this chapter is medical case notes. It gets back to normal after that.

The plane touches down smoothly, and Sherlock is transferred by stretcher to a private ambulance. John goes with him.

Arkady and Kristof follow behind the ambulance in a four by four with a uniformed driver. They are crammed in the back with John's and Sherlock's rucksacks, Kristof's suitcases and Arkady's small bag.

Kristof is cuffed to Arkady's wrist.

On arrival at the research complex, Sherlock is immediately wheeled off to the medical wing. John is prevented from following by armed guards. He is not happy.

The guards usher him into a small conference room, along with Arkady and Kristof. Anthea is waiting inside to debrief them.

*********

Billy has been given an office. He is in there, reading. He has been very low since their arrival in Lausanne, and has not made great efforts to speak to anyone.

He has spent most of the day, and the previous day, reading papers and smoking, living on chamomile tea. Lestrade has had to fight him to get him to eat.

The paper he is engrossed in right now is a medical case study.

_The subject, a 21 year old male, presented with severe pain in the lower right abdomen. An initial diagnosis of appendicitis was made. Body temperature was slightly elevated, but no other indications of fever were present._

_Blood tests showed lowered levels of testosterone, but unusually high levels of progesterone. There were traces of luteinising hormone in the urine._

Billy goes online, looks up luteinising hormone. It is produced in the pituitary gland; high levels in the urine are an indicator of ovulation, in women. There is nothing in the explanation to pique his interest.

_The subject's medical history indicated late onset of puberty, tentatively linked to low testosterone levels. A semen sample was obtained and tests showed sperm count to be in the normal range with normal motility._

Billy wonders if sperm testing is normal in cases of appendicitis. He remembers having to give a sperm sample when he had his own appendix out. He blushes, remembering how embarrassing it had been to produce one.

 _The pain had first occurred at the time of puberty (age 16) and had recurred with varying degrees of severity at roughly two-monthly intervals since that time. Each occurrence of symptoms had a duration of between three and five days_.

Billy draws in a breath, sharply.

 _Surgery was carried out to remove the appendix. On inspection, the appendix was found to be normal, but there was a tumourous mass of tissue present in the abdomen, which was removed intact for further study. The appendix was also removed, as a precautionary measure, but that will not be considered further in this study_.

Billy puts down the paper and scrubs his hands through his hair. He checks the time. It is just after midnight. He picks up the paper again and carries on reading.

_On examination, the tissue mass removed was found to be a small ovary._

_The presence of a functioning ovary could be a reason for the periodically-occurring abdominal pain._

_A laporoscopy was carried out following the excision of the ovary._ _No uterus or fallopian tubes were found. The abdominal pain was confined to the lower right side, further indicating that only one ovary had been present._

Billy feels sick. He has a tiny laporoscopy scar near his own navel. He reads on.

_A second examination of the external sexual organs was carried out._

_The subject appeared to be fully male. There was a well-developed penis and scrotum. Testicles were fully descended. Penis and testes were functional. Nipples appeared to be as normal for a male. There was no abnormal development of breast tissue. The sperm sample previously referred to was obtained through normal manual stimulation to ejaculation._

Billy flips the pages on the paper. There is not much more. He carries on reading.

 _Examination of hair showed it to be consistent in colour and texture across the head. Body hair was male pattern and consistent in colour and texture_.

"What has hair got to do with it all?"

Billy finds this sudden change of focus confusing.

_Close examination of the skin on the torso showed faint, but visible Blaschko's lines on the right shoulder and back, extending as far as the waist._

Billy looks up Blaschko's lines, and feels sick again.

_The presence of visible Blaschko's lines, coupled with the presence of a female organ in an otherwise male body was a strong indicator that the subject was an example of human chimerism._

_DNA testing confirmed the presence of XX and XY chromosomes in the subject's tissue samples_.

Billy looks up human chimerism.

He bookmarks several web pages. His mind is racing too much to concentrate on any more reading. He notices the clock on his screen. 2am.

"Shit. Greg must be wondering where I am."

He closes the paper, gets up and goes out into the corridor. It is empty and quiet. He walks back to his suite, which also turns out to be empty and quiet. Lestrade is not there.

Billy goes looking for him. Tries the cafeteria first. Lestrade is a night owl, he might have wanted coffee. Lestrade is not there, but John Watson is, talking to a man Billy has never seen before.

"Dr Watson?"

"Hello, Bill. You look exhausted. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I've been reading some papers. I thought you and Sherlock weren't due for another couple of days."

"Had a bit of trouble on the train. Got pulled out early."

Billy looks at the stranger sitting with John.

"You look familiar…"

The man smiles. Holds out his hand.

"Kristof Leppälä."

"Oh, the IVF man. I've seen your picture on a paper. Sorry. I'm Bill Wiggins. We'll be working together."

Billy shakes Kristof's hand.

"Can we catch up later, Dr Leppälä? I'm a bit tired just now."

He turns to John.

"Dr Watson, you wouldn't have happened to see Greg, would you?"

"I left him and Sherlock catching up. They're in the medical wing."

Billy thanks him and walks away in the direction of the medical wing.

Kristof looks at John.

" _That_ is Dr Wiggins?"

"Yes. Not what you were expecting, I expect."

*********

Billy walks quietly into the medical wing. He stops outside Sherlock's room, looks in through the glazed door. Sherlock is leaning against Lestrade, who has his arms tightly round him, holding him to his chest. His eyes are closed, and he appears to be speaking quietly into Sherlock's ear as he strokes his hair.

Billy's eyes prickle as he turns away. He wanders down the corridor and out into the garden. It has stopped snowing. He kicks his way through a drift, soaking the legs of his jeans, leans against a tree and lights a cigarette.

He is not dressed for outdoors, and he is soon freezing, but doesn't want to go back inside.

*********

Lestrade holds Sherlock tightly. Sherlock shakes as he tries to catch his breath.

"I could have got him killed, Lestrade. I made him jump out of an aeroplane. We were chased into the forest. I got myself shot. Stupid. He had to take over driving a snowmobile, Lestrade, and he had no experience. _I left him alone with an enemy on the train…_ "

"You didn't know he was an enemy. You were injured. Your wound was infected. You were distracted."

"I suspected something was wrong, and I left him alone."

"You kept Leppälä with you. You had to make a choice. He'll tell you that you made the right call."

"He could have been killed."

"He wasn't. You're both safe."

"If Arkasha hadn't phoned…"

"Yeah. Arkasha. He did phone, Sherlock, and you tipped him off. How he got to you from Yekaterinburg, I'll never know."

"He was already on the move before he phoned. He thinks like you, Lestrade."

"Yeah. We've got a lot in common. Where is he, anyway?"

"Probably went outside to smoke. He smokes too much."

*********

Billy has finished his cigarette, the last in his pack. He wants another one, or something stronger.

"They are old friends. You must not let yourself mind."

Billy jumps at the gravelly, accented voice. He hadn't heard anyone approaching.

"Who are you?"

Billy has time to glimpse white blond hair and bright blue eyes as he is suddenly enveloped in warmth. The man has taken off his fur coat and pulled Billy away from the tree so that he can wrap him in it.

"Arkady Yegorov."

"You always sneak around in the dark, Arkady Yegorov?"

"Да. Yes. I know how to move quietly in the snow. You are wearing ridiculous clothing for winter in Switzerland."

He waves a hand, indicating Billy's vest.

"That lacy thing…"

"So who are you, all full of yourself, insulting a bloke's clothes, forcibly assaulting him with a fur coat…"

Billy can't continue for giggling.

"You are Bill, I think. Grisha's lover."

"Grisha?"

"Gregor."

"Right. Yeah. Maybe. Dunno, really. I suppose… But I'm all right. You didn't have to give me your coat. You'll freeze."

"Not as quickly as you, I think. I am Siberian." He waves his arms to indicate the weather. "This is like a spring day for me."

He laughs. Billy can't help himself. He joins in.

"Arkady? Is that your name?"

"Да. But friends call me Аркаща."

"Arkasha. Why? Arkady is a really nice name."

"It is how we do things in Russia. I need a name for you. Bill is your formal name?"

"Yeah. Friends call me Billy. But they have to earn the privilege."

"How does one earn the privilege?"

"Lending me a fur coat is a good start. Giving me a cigarette would improve your chances."

Billy laughs again as Arkady immediately lights two cigarettes and passes him one.

"Keep the coat, Билли. I do not need it here, and you are too thin to keep yourself warm."

"Billi. Sounds exotic in that accent. Who are you?"

"A friend of Vishka's. Sherlock's."

"Vishka?"

"From Vilhjálmur. The Icelandic form of his name. William. I thought at first you also were William, but John explained."

"Didn't think anyone called him William. I suppose it's useful as a cover name. I call him Shezz, when he gets on my nerves. He hates it. You still haven't answered my question."

Billy glances at Arkady, slightly sideways, sea-glass eyes glinting through lowered lashes. Arkady takes a deep drag on his cigarette to hide a little catch of breath.

Billy's lips quirk into a half smile.

"You're a copper."

"Copper?"

"Policeman. A detective, like Greg. Might have known, really. He'll always find one to look after him. And he likes the pretty ones."

"You are very clever, Billi. And jealous of Grisha?"

"Got no right to be. I should go and say hello to Shezz, I expect. Dr Watson said there was trouble…"

Arkady notices Billy's use of the title and patronymic." _That is interesting_ ," he thinks.

"Yes. Vishka managed to get a message to me."

"And you came riding in on your white horse. Greg does that as well. He only needs to snap his fingers and he's there, like a knight in shining armour…"

"So much bitterness, Billi. Vishka has John…"

"Yeah. I'm Greg's consolation prize. I should know better than to let it upset me. Did you get a consolation prize?"

"Sadly, I did not. Grisha is a lucky man. Perhaps I will joust with him…"

Billy laughs.

"He fights dirty. You might have your hands full."

"I will tell you a secret, Billi. I fight dirty, too."

Arkady grins and sweeps Billy up into his arms.

"Your feet are wet. I will take you inside, and you will not argue."

Billy laughs. He is still laughing when Arkady carries him into Sherlock's room, noisily, and dumps him into Lestrade's lap.

Lestrade holds on to him and smiles.

"Hello, Billy. Was looking for you earlier. Then got the call that this one was here. Where'd you get the coat? No, don't tell me."

He looks at Arkady through narrowed eyelids.

"He was outside, getting cold, in his ridiculous lace. Privet, Grisha."

"Hello, Arkady. Didn't expect to see you here."

Arkady notices the use of his formal name. He grins a grin that would out-shark Lestrade at his sharkiest.

"I came along for the ride. _Gregor_."

"Bit warm in Siberia, was it?"

"Things were heating up a little."

"Must be even warmer here. If you don't need a coat."

"He was cold. And it looks well on him, I think."

Sherlock watches the two policemen sparring for a while.

"Can you two take this outside please? It is exhausting to watch you. Billy, I need a word with you. Will you stay a moment?"

Arkady and Lestrade leave. Billy hunches in a plastic chair.

"He called him Arkady. That was rude, wasn't it?"

"Yes. Well, Yegorov did come swaggering in with Lestrade's boyfriend in his arms. And Lestrade's boyfriend still seems to be wearing Yegorov's coat…"

"Yeah, well. Last I saw, Greg was all wrapped around you…"

"Spare me, please, Billy. I was a bit upset about John. Lestrade was doing his mother hen thing."

"You love it. Don't say you don't. And now you've got two of them to fight over who gets the privilege."

"This is tiresome, Billy. It is quite obvious they were fighting over you."

"Yeah. Concussion, is it, Shezz? Affecting your vision?"

"My vision is not clouded. Billy, have you met Kristof Leppälä yet?"

"Yeah. Just to say hello to, when I was looking for Greg."

"Arkady thinks he may be compromised."

"Working for Siger Holmes?"

Sherlock is lost for words for a moment.

"What do you know about Siger Holmes?"

"Only that he's interested in me. I've been reading his papers. And one of his ex-students tried to kill Anthea and kidnap me. He's obviously the bad guy. Is he a relative of yours?"

"I don't want to discuss him. Speak to Mycroft."

"All right. But you want me to keep an eye on Dr Leppälä."

"Yes. I don't think he is compromised, but Arkady has reason to suspect him, apparently."

"No offence, Shezz, but I'd trust his judgement over yours at the moment."

"You like him."

"Yeah. Feel a bit sorry for him as well. You were with him when you were dead, weren't you?"

"For a while. Yes."

"He didn't get a consolation prize when you left him though, did he?"

"Consolation prize? Is that what you think you are? After all this time? Lestrade's _consolation prize?_ "

Billy doesn't speak. Can't speak.

"Billy, if you knew how difficult it was for me to give him up for you…"

"You left him for Dr Watson."

"Oh, Billy. I gave up any chance of a life with Lestrade long before I met John. I can't help it if neither of you were bright enough to notice each other properly until Mycroft gave you both a kick…"

"Generous of you."

"We were never lovers, you know. Not until after you went to Canada."

"Why? He was always yours, I could always see that. His heart was, anyway, even if his stupid head still thought he was straight."

"You needed a guardian angel, Billy. After the meth lab, I couldn't leave you unguarded. Lestrade was, is, the very best of men. I knew he would look after you. I hoped he would love you, too. I knew you would love him. You and I are very alike."

"After the meth lab? But he was still yours then. Till Dr Watson."

"He was yours, Billy. I worked cases for him, of course. He was the only one at the Yard who would work with me. But he looked after you. Stayed with you when there were storms. Made sure you ate. Kept the gangs away from you."

"No. Yeah, he did all that, because he's nice."

Billy frowns.

"Me and him, we've not actually spent a lot of time together. Not really. A few months here and there, in between disasters. More time apart than together, really. I've seen him looking at you, Shezz. Dr Watson's seen it as well."

"I can't help being ravishingly attractive, Billy."

"Can't help having a super-sized ego, either, I suppose."

"Billy, perhaps he wonders what might have been, sometimes. But he _is_ yours. Don't doubt it. And now you have Arkasha keeping him on his toes. Enjoy the fireworks."

"Sherlock. Why did it matter what happened to me? I was just a junkie."

"Talk to Mycroft tomorrow."

Sherlock closes his eyes. Billy goes to look for Lestrade again. He keeps Arkady's coat on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Human chimerism is a real thing. Some of the science I'm wrapping around it is a bit sketchy, though.


	39. Tall, dark and handsome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lausanne
> 
> Queenie answers some questions

Billy is in the gardens attached to the complex. He has come out for a cigarette, and is watching snow fall gently past the edge of the tiled canopy he is standing under. He hears the swish of automatic doors opening behind him, and the faint hum of Queenie's chair.

"Settling in all right? Quarters okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

Billy has been allocated a suite on the first floor of the complex. There is a sitting room and a bedroom, with a good ensuite shower. Lestrade will share it with him until he returns to London. Billy has left him making use of the shower.

"You're a bit quiet for a rock god…"

Billy laughs

"I'm not a rock god. I'm a scientist. Those papers you sent me have given me a lot to think about. Especially the last one."

"There's a couple more by that author. Mr Holmes wanted me to hold them back until you got here. I'll put them in your office."

"Yeah. Thanks Queenie. Um, Queenie, you and Anthea…"

"Thought you might be interested in that. Ask away. I'll let you know if it starts getting uncomfortable."

"How long have you been together?"

"Coming up for five years now. We were in the army together. I was her sergeant, when she was Major Smith. I got into a bit of trouble. It left me like this."

She waves her hand at the wheelchair.

"She stood up for me and got herself into the shit for it. She's amazing."

"How old are you, Queenie? If that's not rude?"

"It would be from anyone else, but I like you, so I'll let you off. I'm thirty two. You thought I'd be older."

"Your voice sounds… 'Course, now I've seen you… I don't want to say anything that'll be unacceptable, Queenie."

"You can change some things, hide others, but the voice is hard to do anything with. Older women's voices tend to be deeper. I can still shout like a drill sergeant if I need to."

She laughs.

"The Chief spotted me straight away as well. Hard not to, I suppose. Six foot of tattooed ex-sergeant. Well, five foot eight, without my boots. But I'm never without my boots. You've both been very polite."

She takes a deep breath.

"I got caught out by a bunch of squaddies when I was out one night. Dressed, you know. Not quite like this, I've only got into this look recently, but skirt, heels…They beat the shit out of me. Anthea found me and looked after me. She was lovely, but I knew she would get into trouble for standing up for me, so I didn't tell her they hadn't stopped. She found out, of course, and had them up on charges. The brass didn't take it seriously, and let them go. They retaliated by really going to town on me. Left me half dead with a damaged spinal cord."

Billy swallows past a lump in his throat.

"They did that just because you…"

"Because I'm trans, yeah. Should have hidden it till I left the army. But then I wouldn't have Anthea…"

She goes quiet for a moment.

"You don't have to tell me anything else. I was being nosy, I suppose…"

"it's a relief to talk about it to someone. And you've had your own troubles, I've nosed into your story. Just give me a minute…"

Billy waits for her to continue.

"She went to the top on my behalf, called in some favours. Mycroft Holmes got involved, got compensation for me, and gave me a job when I was invalided out. It cost her, though. She was up against the old boys' network and institutionalised homophobia. She got outed, and it made it harder for her. She had to work really hard to get her career back on track. Mycroft kept an eye on us both, but she did the work herself. He calls her in on a lot of jobs now. I think he likes her."

"I don't know what to make of her."

"You're trying not to tell me she came on to you. It's all right, Doc. I know."

"Why would she do that? She knows I'm gay, and if she's…"

"Lesbian? She is. She was after your genes, Doc."

She laughs as Billy gapes

"What?"

"Your genes. Your sperm. She wants to get pregnant. Badly. Thinks her time's running out, and this job's not helping. She wants a baby. I can't do that for her."

"You didn't bank any? For insurance, I mean. I know some trans women do, before they have the surgery."

"Getting close to inappropriate, Doc…"

"Sorry. Why me?"

"Tall, dark and handsome. Artistic, musical, clever…"

"Greg would be a much better donor. He's so beautiful. He's musical as well, and creative, and you don't get to be a DCI by being stupid. He's more normal than me."

"The Chief is lovely, I agree, but he's not a genius scientist. And you're younger. More likely to have healthy sperm. He was married a long time with no kids…"

"Why didn't she just tell me? She could have asked me to donate…"

"I don't know. I think she thought she'd see if she could use the time on the road with you to get things started the old-fashioned way. She's good at getting men interested. It's part of her job, sometimes. She doesn't usually follow through, of course. She was a bit pissed off when Mycroft pulled the Chief into the team."

"I wondered about that. What do you think about it all?"

"If she wants a baby, I'm okay with it, though I'd rather she went for the turkey-baster option, to be honest."

"The what?"

"Artificial insemination."

"Oh. Right. Okay. Look, you know she drugged me? She didn't, I mean, we didn't, I'd have known…"

"No. She would have had sex with you if you'd wanted to, but not if you weren't able to give proper, conscious consent. She gets a bit near the line sometimes, crosses it occasionally, but she'd never resort to rape. Because that's what it would have been, wouldn't it? She knocked you out for another reason. I don't know what that was. She doesn't tell me anything I don't need to know. You'll need to talk to Mycroft. He'll be here tomorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Queenie will around a bit in some later stories in this series.


	40. Three conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lausanne

"Queenie, can we just leave it for now? I'm tired."

"It's important, Helene."

"Don't call me that here, Queenie. I'm Anthea when I'm working for Mycroft."

"Even in our bedroom?"

"Don't slip up outside."

"Have you ever known me to? We need to talk about it."

"Oh, all right."

Anthea sits up in bed and switches on the lamp. Queenie doesn't move, apart from turning her shoulders a little towards her partner.

"You spoke to him. Do you think he'd be willing?"

"I don't know. He still seemed a bit upset about you drugging him. He recommended Lestrade, thought he'd give you a prettier baby."

Anthea laughs.

"You know, I've never met a man with such a ridiculous lack of awareness of what he looks like. It sounds like you're having doubts, Queen."

"I've been having doubts ever since you first brought up the idea. I'm not maternal, Hel. I don't know how I'd handle it. We'd have to look for a house somewhere. We wouldn't be able to carry on working the way we do. And I'd be useless at getting up in the night…"

"I'm not getting any younger, Queenie. Older mothers are more likely to have difficulty conceiving. And there's more chance of abnormality. I need to do it soon, if I'm going to do it."

"You'll do it anyway, won't you? Even if I'd rather you didn't."

"I don't know. Maybe. Probably. But I want you to want it as well."

"I'm happy as we are, Hel."

"I know. Let's sleep on it, Queen. Were both tired, and you've been under a bit of strain, meeting all these new people. Have any of them given you any trouble?"

"Bill and Greg have been great. Not even a blink. Yegorov was all right, as well. Dr Leppälä gave me a couple of funny looks, but he didn't say anything. Dr Watson's the one I'm going to have to sort out, I think. His body language was a bit iffy. He's ex-army, isn't he? He might have heard about us."

"Do you want me to talk to him?"

"No. I can sort it out for myself. If I need to."

*********

Billy and Kristof are in the lab, working late. Kristof has connected an external hard drive to the lab computer and is checking files, while Billy makes an inventory of equipment, ticking off items on a list.

"What exactly have you been told about this project, Kristof?"

"About your involvement? Not much. My own project will obviously continue until I publish my findings."

"You're working on a way to inhibit the process that prevents implantation?"

"Yes, but it may be that I cannot find one. That will be a valid result, of course."

"Of course. You have test material? Genetic material? Embryos?"

"Yes. But more will be required. Mr Holmes assures me that the men in this team will cooperate."

"You're going to start human testing?"

Billy is surprised. He hadn't realised the research had progressed that far.

"Yes. I will admit that Mr Holmes is rushing me forward. I would prefer more animal data, but there is a question of funding…"

"You're going to ask the men to donate sperm?"

"Yes. We will need control samples, as well as more samples with the problematic X chromosome."

"You have some of those already?"

"Yes, but new ones are needed."

"How will you get the new ones?"

"We have known subjects. It will not be a problem."

"Okay. Do you want me to give you a control sample?"

"You do not need to. There are enough donors."

"One more wouldn't hurt, surely?"

"Mr Holmes has asked that you be excluded. He did not give me a reason. Perhaps you should talk to him about it."

"What about ova? Have you got those?"

"Some. And there will be new ones available soon. And surrogate mothers are being interviewed, apparently. Of course we may not get to the point where they are required."

"Mycroft gave me your papers to read. I need to talk to him about my part in the research. He told me I'd be leading the team…"

"He did not tell me that."

*********

Lestrade doesn't want to spend another night alone. He goes looking for Billy. Finds him in the garden.

"Bill? What are you doing out here in the middle of the night again? Waiting for Arkady? Still wearing his coat, I see."

"Don't, Greg. I've just had a chat with Kristof. Mycroft's pushing him to go to human trials. He'll probably ask you to give a sperm sample."

"And that worries you? Why?"

"Dunno. Just feels a bit iffy. I've been excluded from the donor list. I expect it's because I'm a freak."

"I've never heard you use that word, Bill. You get really wound up when people call a Sherlock a freak. Why would you use it about yourself?"

Lestrade settles himself next to Billy on the garden bench, lights cigarettes for them both. He pulls his feet up on to the bench, clasps his knees.

"You've been a bit quiet the last couple of days, and you didn't come to bed last night…"

"I've been reading. I went back to my office after you started your pissing contest with Arkady. Had a bit of a row with Sherlock as well."

"What did you row with Sherlock about?"

"You. Consolation prizes, guardian angels…"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Billy."

"It doesn't matter. The paper I read last night upset me. It was about me, I think. Authored by Siger Holmes. I need to talk to Mycroft about some stuff. I thought he'd be here today."

"He's been delayed. He'll be here tomorrow. What was in the paper?"

"Here. Take a look. It's short, just a case study. I've made some notes on it."

Billy wraps the fur coat around himself and edges into the corner of the bench. He is afraid to touch Lestrade, doesn't know how he will react to the findings in the paper. He lights another cigarette and gazes into nothing while Lestrade reads. After a while Lestrade hands the paper back.

"What's human chimerism? Words of less than one syllable if you can manage it."

Billy smiles tightly.

"It's a type of birth defect. Manifests in different ways. A human chimera has two distinctive types of DNA in their body. Sometimes it's clumped together, sometimes it's more evenly spread. Sometimes it's easy to spot, sometimes not so easy."

"How can you have two types of DNA? What does that mean?"

"Most people have XX or XY chromosomes. The Y makes you male. The subject of that paper has XX as well as XY. It's me he's talking about, Greg. My Blaschko's lines…"

"Under your tattoo?"

"Yeah. Thought it was just really ugly birthmarks. My appendix, my late puberty, my laparoscopy, my ovary, I suppose. I wonder what happened to it?"

Lestrade scrubs his hands through his hair.

"It doesn't change who you are, Billy."

"It does. I'm not a proper man…"

"You were last time you had your cock up my arse…"

"Don't be crude. It's not funny, Greg."

"No. It's not. I'm sorry, Bill. But you are definitely a man, mate."

Lestrade shuffles across the bench, crowding Billy so that he can't get away.

"Let me get inside that coat with you."

"Are you sure? It might be the weapon of the enemy…"

"If he's fool enough to give his coat to someone else's bloke…"

"Am I?" Billy shivers. "Your bloke, I mean? You're not still just my minder?"

"Fucking Sherlock. What's he been saying to you?"

"I don't want to row with you, Greg."

"Look. Sherlock noticed you when you first left Cambridge. I hardly knew him myself then. He brought you into his homeless network, didn't he?"

"Yeah."

"Then you got…attacked, and Mycroft started sniffing around. I pulled you in for cooking crystal meth and there was a mysterious explosion that meant there was no evidence against you."

"You think Mycroft had something to do with that?"

"Yeah. I do. Anyway, he asked me to keep an eye on you, make sure you didn't go under."

"But you wanted Sherlock…"

"I won't deny it. He fascinated me. But he only wanted me for the work. Oh, he'd let me cuddle him if he was upset, patch him up if he got hurt. I was married, in any case. Then, by the time I wasn't any more, John had turned up and I knew any hope of me and Sherlock was gone. Then he jumped."

"It broke you. I watched you hurting and I couldn't do anything to help."

"You did help. You gave me someone to focus on. A reason to stay in the force…"

"How?"

"There were some nasty people interested in you, Billy. I headed them off, more than once, arrested some. Siger Holmes was mentioned. I've only just remembered that. Wish I had your memory, I'd have made the connection sooner."

"And then Mycroft threw us together on a secret mission."

"And I fell for you. Hard, Bill. It wasn't supposed to happen, but I couldn't help myself."

"I already loved you. Had done for years."

"So, yeah, I was your minder. But not now. Not since that mission. You'll probably have Arkady, once I go back to London."

"That's what the pissing contest was about."

"Yeah. He's a charmer."

"He's like you."

"Yeah. Too much like me. But younger."

"You're not old, Greg."

"So you keep telling me."

Billy wraps the fur coat around Lestrade, and they cuddle up on the bench.

"You were explaining about the DNA…"

"Yeah. You know how twins are born? Not identical twins, fraternal twins."

"Yeah. I've got twin cousins. François and Lisette."

"I didn't know that. Anyway, so you know it's two separate eggs and two separate sperm?"

"Yeah. Pure luck that they get fertilised at the same time."

"Right, well, sometimes, rarely, the two fertilised eggs get fused together to make one baby."

"Okay. I'll take your word for that. It doesn't sound good though."

"It can cause all sorts of effects.  Sometimes it's minor, like the DNA in one eye is different from the other, so you get different colour eyes, one brown, one blue, say. Sometimes it's more serious. The blood DNA might be different from the DNA in some of the organs. Sometimes the pregnancy isn't sustainable. The cases that you hear about the most are the sensational ones. The ones where it involves the sex organs. You can get hermaphrodites, where there is full set of male and female organs, internal and external. That's very rare. Or you can get someone like me."

"So you're saying that you've got XY that makes you male, but you've got a bit of XX as well. You would have had a twin sister if everything had gone right?"

"Yeah. Assuming the paper is about me. There's no name given for the subject, but I'm a bit like Sherlock, I don't really believe in coincidences. I think it has to be about me, given the evidence."

"That paper said the bellyaches were because of ovulation…"

"Yeah. And I've started getting them again. On the left side. It was on the right side before."

"Do you think you might have had two ovaries, and they missed one?"

"Maybe. But if I did, the one they missed wasn't functioning."

"But it might be now?"

"Yeah. But I can't think why it would suddenly start ten years after they took the other one out. It doesn't make sense."

Lestrade hugs Billy tightly.

 

"I think we both need to talk to Mycroft when he gets here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I have to declare the "Billyverse" is officially an AU. This series is so far beyond the BBC timeline it can't be anything else. And some events that are screaming to be written about are sure to be contradicted as soon as a new show airs, whenever that happens.


	41. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lausanne
> 
> Mycroft schedules some uncomfortable meetings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: there are references to infertility, eating disorders and past psychological abuse in this chapter.

Mycroft Holmes is sitting on the sofa in his office in the Lausanne complex. He had flown in from London in the early hours of the morning and hasn't slept for twenty four hours. He has just finished reading some lab reports, which have pleased him, but worried him at the same time. He is exhausted, and apprehensive, and expects to start having difficult conversations as soon as his team members know he has arrived. He makes a schedule of appointments.

There is no point in going to bed. He puts his feet up on the sofa and makes himself as comfortable as he can. A power nap might be all he can manage between now and his first meeting.

**0900: Sgt Q Fletcher**

Queenie rolls into Mycroft's office and stops just inside the door. Mycroft has a preference for thick carpet in his office, and it grabs at the wheels of her electric chair, making it hard to move. Mycroft is aware of this problem, and normally goes to Queenie's office to speak to her, but tiredness has rendered him a little thoughtless.

"You look exhausted, if you don't mind me saying so, sir."

"I will sleep later, Queenie. I apologise for making you come to me. This is an informal debrief. You have been monitoring communications between team members?"

"Yes, sir. DCI Lestrade has had some interesting conversations with Dr Watson."

"Hmm. Yes. He is very concerned with Dr Wiggins's welfare. Queenie, I would like your opinion on something. It concerns Colonel Smith. It might test your loyalty to her."

"Yes sir. You want to know why she used Rohypnol, rather than something else."

"Perceptive of you. Yes. I find it to be a curious choice. She has exhibited some worrying behaviour on this mission."

"Sir?"

"Queenie. I should not have to remind you that you work for me, not her. I may have to consider disciplinary measures against her if she has compromised the mission. And against you if you are covering something for her…"

"Have you spoken to her, sir?"

"No. I do not wish to make this formal unless I have to."

"Sir, you are aware of our relationship?"

"Yes, Queenie. And I do not disapprove of it. Do you believe that she wished to harm Dr Wiggins?"

"No sir. She likes him sir."

"Do you believe she may have inadvertently caused him harm or distress?"

"No sir. I do know why she did it, and I have spoken to Dr Wiggins privately about the incident. He accepted my explanation with no hard feelings. It is very personal, sir. I would really prefer it if you spoke to her."

"You are very loyal to her, Queenie. I will not pressure you further for the moment. But be assured that if I have to return to this subject with you it will be on a formal basis, and consequences could be severe."

"Yes sir. Is that all, sir?"

"For now, Queenie. You may go."

"There's something else sir. Unconnected."

"Go on."

"I had a bit of an argument with Dr Watson last night. He made some very offensive remarks, sir. Used inappropriate language. I raised my voice to him. I would have probably stuck one on him if I could have got out of the chair quickly enough."

"The subject of the argument?"

"My relationship with Colonel Smith, sir. The circumstances of our getting together. My… life choices."

"Ah. Were there any witnesses to this…altercation?"

"DCI Lestrade pulled him up on it, sir. Dragged him away from me. Sir, I don't want to get the Colonel upset…"

"I will speak to Dr Watson, Queenie. Are you happy to leave it with me?"

"As long as it doesn't happen again, sir."

**09.30 Dr J Watson**

"Ah, Dr Watson. Please take a seat"

John stays on his feet.

"I'm fine, Mycroft. What do you want to talk to me about?"

"What is your perception of the team members you have recently met? Any observations you would like to share?"

"Kristof Leppälä seems a bit odd. Get the feeling he's trying to pump me for information. Not that I know anything, of course. I'm apparently on the ' _doesn't need to know anything_ ' list."

"DCI Lestrade has made a similar complaint about information sharing. Please do not take it personally. How about Major Yegorov?"

"Likes himself a bit too much, but seems okay. Bit flamboyant for my taste. Sherlock and Bill seem to like him. He and Greg had a bit of sabre-rattling going on night before last, but I think they're over it. Think he might be keeping an eye on Kristof."

"Very perceptive, John. How about Ms Fletcher? Have you met her before?"

"Queenie? I'd heard of her. Grapevine, you know. Like I'd heard of the Colonel. Didn't realise it was Anthea, of course. Queenie seems good at her job. Bit over-fond of code names…"

"You don't find anything about Ms Fletcher objectionable?"

"No. Why would I?"

"Some people might."

"Not me, Mycroft. Each to their own, I say."

"I understand you had a bit of an altercation with her last night. Would you like to tell me what that was about?"

"I didn't see her last night."

"You were seen, and overheard, John. And someone intervened."

"Someone's making stuff up, Mycroft. I didn't see Queenie last night, and I didn't speak to her. I certainly did not have an argument with her. If anyone says I did, they're lying."

Mycroft is very good at reading people. John appears to be telling the truth.

"Why do you think that someone might lie, John?"

"No idea. Who told you this stuff?"

"I would prefer not to say. I will investigate, of course."

"Of course. Is that all, Mycroft?"

"Yes, John. Thank you."

****10.00 Maj. A Yegorov** **

Arkady strolls into Mycroft's office and sits on the arm of the sofa. He respects Mycroft, but isn't afraid of him. Mycroft offers him tea, which he accepts, taking it black with lemon.

"Thank you for your timely intervention in Novosibirsk, Arkady."

"I was doing my job, Mycroft."

"Indeed. And you did it with your usual flair."

"You are about to give me another job, I expect."

"Yes. Gregor will be returning to London soon. Dr Wiggins will be staying on here for some time. He will need someone to look after him."

"Gregor will not like it."

"I am aware of that. He will, however, accept it."

"There is no way he could continue?"

"Unfortunately not. He is needed in London. His police role is important, and I cannot in all conscience deprive New Scotland Yard of his services any longer."

"Billi will miss him."

"Yes. I am aware of that, too. He will need a friend, Arkady, as well as a bodyguard…"

"Yes."

"You will take on the job? It could be for an extended period of time."

"It is better for me to be away from Siberia for a while. I will take it on. But Mycroft, he is young, and he will be lonely with Gregor gone. It may become complicated. Gregor is my friend, I would be sorry to lose his friendship."

"You kept his friendship after Sherlock…"

"Sherlock was not his lover."

"Gregor and Bill have recovered from setbacks in their relationship before. I will give you Bill's file. Eyes-only of course."

Mycroft hands over a flash drive. Arkady clips it to his key ring.

"Do you believe in the concept of 'soul mates', Arkady?"

Arkady laughs.

"No. At least, if they exist I have never met mine."

"I always thought the concept was fanciful, too, but having seen Bill and Gregor over the years, I am not so sure."

Arkady leaves. Mycroft steels himself for his next meeting. It will be a difficult one.

**10.45 DCI G Lestrade**

Lestrade is early for his meeting, and Mycroft keeps him waiting. Lestrade knows this is a tactic Mycroft employs when he wants to put someone on the back foot, and he is a little surprised to find it being used on _him_.

He enters the office when he is called, and stands waiting while Mycroft fusses with pen and notebook. Another discomfiting tactic.

He waits, outwardly calm, inwardly boiling, until Mycroft invites him to sit. He is not offered tea.

"Gregor, I am expediting your return to London. You will leave at 19.15 this evening."

"That's it?"

"There is one other thing. Dr Leppälä has asked for sample material from male members of the team. Please call in at the laboratory when you leave here."

"So it's goodbye Greg, and don't forget to wank into a pot on your way out?"

"Crudely put, but yes, essentially."

"Have you told Billy I'm leaving?"

"I have a meeting scheduled with him this afternoon, but you may of course inform him as soon as you wish."

"Those papers you gave him to read have got him worried. I was hoping to be able to spend longer with him, help him come to terms with things. He's upset…"

"He will get over it, Gregor."

"You're a cold bastard, Mycroft."

"You are not the first to say it, Gregor, and I very much doubt that you will be the last."

"He needs a minder. There's been an attempted kidnap already. He doesn't trust Anthea."

"Arkady Yegorov has his file."

"His file…"

"There are things you do not know about Dr Wiggins, Gregor. Things _he_ doesn't yet know. You have an emotional attachment to him. Until now, I have been prepared to overlook it, but I cannot continue to do so."

"You're saying I can't look after him because I love him?"

"In the context of this project, yes. Once this is over, it is likely he will wish to return to you. And I am sure you will welcome him back. You have set a precedent for that, after all. It is for a few weeks only, Gregor. I am not trying to prevent you from having a relationship with him, only making sure that emotional entanglements do not get in the way of the project."

"But Arkady, Mycroft. Why Arkady?"

"He will need a friend, as well as a protector. Bill is likely to find Arkady 'simpatico', as the Italians put it…"

"That's what worries me."

"He will protect Bill, and be a friend to him. He is the very best person I could give the job to. You know this, Gregor. Don't allow your own insecurities to cast doubt on Arkady's ability."

"He'll know things about him that I don't."

"I have not been able to give you the requisite clearance because of your emotional involvement. By the end of the project, Bill will have had full disclosure. If he then wishes to share the new information with you he will be at liberty to do so. Be patient Gregor, wait for him. In the meantime....."

Lestrade has had time to bring his anger under control. He looks at Mycroft appraisingly. Sees the tightness of his jaw and the almost imperceptible trembling of his hands. He realises this is why he hasn't been offered a drink. Rattling cups and saucers would give the man away.

"Okay, Mycroft. Shall we start again? You back-footed me nicely there, but I'm on to you now."

"I do not know what you mean, Gregor."

"Arkady says names are important. He's right. You've played the nasty bastard act very well Mycroft, but you haven't called me _Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade_ once, so assuming I haven't been sacked and no-one's got around to telling me yet, you're not pissed off with me. There's something big bothering you, Mycroft. Talk to me."

"I need you in London, Gregor."

"Okay. I got that. Why?"

"I want you to, shall we say, keep an eye on someone."

"Who?" 

"This is rather more difficult than I expected it to be…"

"You were hoping I'd storm out in a huff and find a file on my doormat when I got home."

"Essentially, yes."

"Whose file?"

Mycroft finally pours tea, hands a cup to Lestrade. His hands are steady again.

"Dr John Watson"

"What am I looking out for?"

"Specific and selective amnesia relating to what would normally be memorable events."

"Memorable how?"

"Out of character, perhaps."

"Not helpful, Mycroft. Give me an example."

"There are examples in the file, all unpleasant, some more serious than others, but you were involved in one incident yourself, yesterday, I understand."

"Was I? The only thing I remember yesterday was separating him and Queenie… Wait, are you saying he doesn't remember that?"

"That is the crux of the matter. I have spoken to him myself, and I am a hard man to deceive. It appears that he does not have any recollection of it. Talk to him yourself, Gregor. See if I have missed something. Some small tell, for example, that would indicate that he is lying."

"What will happen if he is?"

"That does not concern you. Neither does the consequence of him not lying."

Lestrade knows when he has butted up against the wall of his clearance level.

"How long has this been going on, Mycroft?"

"It is in the file, Gregor."

"Okay. Give it to me." 

Mycroft hands Lestrade a flash drive and he puts it in his pocket. He will wait until he gets back to London to look at it.

*********

Mycroft takes a break after his meeting with Lestrade. He uses the time to look in on Kristof in his lab, and on Sherlock, in the medical wing. He also has a brief consultation with the medical centre manager, and the staff surgeon. He arranges for afternoon tea to be sent to his office. He has a meeting with Billy scheduled, and expects that it will be a long one.

*********

**"** Make yourself comfortable, Bill."

"Why are you sending Greg away so soon, Mycroft?"

"He is needed in London. That is his job, Bill. Sherlock and John will be following him as soon as the infection in Sherlock's arm has cleared up."

Billy looks sulky, but has to agree that Lestrade's job takes priority over a trip away with his boyfriend. Mycroft offers him tea, and tries to maintain a non-threatening atmosphere.

"How was your trip? I am sorry that we had to interrupt your schedule of concerts."

"It was okay, when I wasn't being drugged or kidnapped."

"You are understandably upset about those things…"

"Why did Anthea have to knock me out?"

"I will come to that, Bill. Tell me, have you read all the papers I had sent to you?"

"Yeah. And the couple of extra ones Queenie gave me when I got here. Question two, since you don't want to answer question one. Who is Siger Holmes? Question three. Why did one of Siger Holmes's ex-students stab Anthea and try to kidnap me? Question four. Why did I need a minder when I was sent down from Cambridge? Question five…"

"Enough, Bill. Please. I will tell you what I can, but you must keep it in confidence."

Billy scoffs. "Spy stuff…"

"If you like. Siger Holmes is my father."

"No. I've _met_ your dad…"

"You have met my stepfather, Bill. He took Holmes as his name when he married my mother. This is a long story, please let me tell it in my own way."

Mycroft pours himself and Billy a cup of tea each and goes on.

"Siger and my mother had been married for three years when I was born. As I grew up he became increasingly disappointed in me. I was intelligent enough for him, certainly, but never a particularly attractive child. I was home-schooled by a series of tutors, and I suffered from lack of interaction with other children. My motherwas heavily involved in her own academic career, and did not have much time to spare for an awkward, quite anxious child. I became overweight by the time I was ten, and have suffered all my life because of that. Sherlock uses it as a weapon against me, of course."

Billy looks surprised.

"You're not fat, Mycroft, or awkward."

"I do not have a healthy relationship with food, Bill. It isnot something I admit to readily, but eating disorders are endemic in my family. You will see the importance of this as we go on. To continue, my father was disappointed in his fat, awkward firstborn, and I was eventually sent away to school, where, after suffering a good deal of initial bullying, I learned to fit into the society of my peers. And to use my intelligence to improve my situation."

Billy smiles tightly. He remembers his own experience of being bullied at boarding school.

"Sherlock was born when I was seven. I adored him, and I think he loved me too, when he was young. My father indulged him. He was a pretty child, and he was engagingly bright. However, he began to exhibit his distinctive, shall we say, _Sherlockian_ behaviour at about age four and my father lost patience with him. My mother also found him difficult to cope with. I had become quiet and withdrawnunder my father's disapproval and my mother's neglect. Sherlock, in contrast, grew loudly angry, and developed the impatience with 'lesser' minds that you see in him today. He was subjected to psychological test after psychological test, with a variety of diagnoses, the sociopathy that he labels himself with being the least damning."

"He's got an eating disorder as well, hasn't he?"

"Yes. He is not quite anorexic, but his relationship with food is not healthy. My father was disappointed with both his sons, thought us both defective, and effectively disowned us both. He blamed our mother, I think, and began staying away from home frequently. Sherlock deduced that he was having affairs…"

"He told your mum?"

"Yes. Later. He claims he didn't realise it would cause trouble. Perhaps that is true."

Mycroft gets up and looks out of the window.

"He had a child with one of the women. Siger Holmes never officially acknowledged the child, but he did take an interest, and was obviously not as disappointed in that child as he had been in Sherlock and myself. He paid for a good education, and eventually funded the child to go to university, where he obtained a very good degree. Something happened later, though, and the support was withdrawn. The child, a boy, was left to find his own way in the world."

"Go on, Mycroft. I think I know where this is going."

"You were the child, Bill. Sherlock found you, after you left Cambridge, but didn't know what to do. He wanted to tell you straight away, but I, to my shame, persuaded him not to. I thought it would hurt my mother too much to discover that my father had another son, one that he had cared more for than _her_ sons."

"Didn't care enough to get me off the streets…"

"Bill, it was his fault that you were _on_ the streets."

"Why?"

"You read the paper, the case study?"

"Yeah. The chimerism. He found out I was a freak…"

"Not a freak, Bill. Never think that. In fact, your condition has provided Sherlock and me with a hope we had not previously been able to entertain. However, it was an imperfection, and one which disappointed Siger. He reacted according to his usual pattern."

"He yanked my funding. Did he bury my research?"

"I believe he did. And tried to stop it being published when you eventually completed it. He is vindictive, Bill. And has a great deal of influence in academic circles. He cut me out of his will when he found out I was gay. He tried to use his influence through the old boys' network to have me removed from my position. Fortunately, I am useful to the Government machine, and he failed in that. Sherlock was not so lucky. When Siger found out about his drug use, he used his influence to have him removed from his university course. Sherlock was effectively on the streets too, if you recall, when you first met him."

"Why didn't you help him?"

"He is stubborn, Bill. He was more stubborn then than he is now. He refused financial assistance, refused to accept my help. Lestrade came upon him by accident one day. It was the best thing that ever happened to him."

"Okay. But why did you leave _me_ in that squat, Mycroft? Just out of loyalty to your mother?"

"That, and self-preservation, Bill. I was having difficulties in my own job. Sherlock was a huge liability already, and I feared you would be another. I did not realise how different you are from Sherlock. The similarities eclipsed the differences. Your looks, your intelligence, your affinity for chemistry, your musical talent, your obvious issues with food. And I did not know then that your drug addiction was forced on you. I made the terrible assumption that you had chosen that path, as he had."

Billy gets up.

"I need a cigarette, Mycroft. Canwe talk outside? Or is this too hush-hush?"

"I will come with you to the garden. But we will need to come back here to continue this conversation."

"I'll wait then. I might get drunk later. Carry on."

Billy sits down on the sofa. Mycroft sits next to him. They are both close to tears.

"When I heard you had been gang-raped, I wanted to kill the perpetrators. I wanted to bring you into my home, to protect you from any further trouble. That time, it was Sherlock who stopped me. I did, however, arrange for an explosion to occur."

"You blew up the meth lab. I wondered…"

"You had become quite useful to Sherlock by then, a leading light of his homeless network. You know he is more concerned about his workthan anything…"

"Yeah. But you set Greg on me. He more or less told me that the other day, after Sherlock and me had a row."

"I did. You had spoken to Sherlock about your research, and I started looking for traces of it. Somehow, Siger found out that I was looking. It was imperative that he did not connect that search to the young man in a squat in Camden."

"It was a good squat. I always wondered how I managed to get such a good place. You had a hand in that."

"Yes. Then Sherlock had to fake his death, which gave Lestrade more time for you. You grew to trust him."

"I fell in love with him."

"Then? I'd thought it was after I sent you to St Andrews…"

"No. I already loved him. That was when he fell for me. He says. I'm having trouble believing anything anyone says now."

"He loves you, Bill. Do not doubt it."

"If you say so."

"I don't expect you to forgive me, Bill. But do not project your anger at me onto Gregor."

"Why did Siger send someone to kidnap me in Paris?"

"For the same reason I brought you here. Bill, you are aware of Dr Leppälä's work?"

"Yeah. The X chromosome problem."

"Sherlock and I both have the faulty X chromosome."

"And I don't, because it's carried in the female line. I've got a different mother."

"Yes. You can father children."

"I still don't understand why that's important."

"Neither Sherlock nor I can have children, Bill. We are the last Holmses. If there is to be another generation, it will have to come from you."

Billy laughs. And laughs. Gets hiccups. Laughs some more.

"What is funny, Bill?"

"You're the second person who's asked me for a baby this week. I don't even know if I want kids."

"The second?"

"Anthea."

"Ah. Bill, have you been having a sexual relationship with Anthea?"

Billy laughs again

"Look at me, Mycroft. I'm gayer than you are."

"Nevertheless…"

"Oh, I know it's not impossible. And she did her best to get me interested. Good job Greg was there. I think she came close to forcing it though. She gave me Rohypnol. I really need a cigarette. Is there much more?"

"You will be angry with me."

"I'm already angry with you. How much more angry can I get?"

"Anthea has been systematically dosing you with Clomiphene, on my instructions. It is a drug used to stimulate ovulation."

"How? How didn't I notice? How didn't Greg notice?"

"Gregor did find her supply of the drug, and made enquiries as to its use, but had no way of connecting a fertility drug to you. She put it in the water you all used several times a day."

"She drugged herself. And Greg."

"Yes, but there were no adverse consequences for either of them."

"You suspected they'd missed the second ovary."

"Yes. The drug stimulated it into action. Your abdominal pains started to recur. Anthea knocked you out so that she could take swabs of your saliva without you knowing. We tested the swabs. You are ovulating again. She should not have used Rohypnol, though. Your remarkable memory should not have been risked."

"What happened to the first ovary, the one Siger Holmes found?"

"He took it, and harvested the ova. They have been in cryogenic storage. Sherlock was able to recover some of them, but we have not been able to produce viable embryos from them."

"They're at the end of their shelf life. Ten years…"

"Yes. We do not know if Siger had more success than us."

"You want the other one."

"Yes. With your permission, of course. We would like to try again. Sherlock would very much like to have achild of his own. I would also like to see the Holmes line continue. And I have a sperm donor."

Billy stares at nothing for minutes. Mycroft lets him.

"Siger Holmes wants it, too."

"Yes. If you allow us to remove it, I will ensure that there is a security leak. He will know it has been removed, and will stop pursuing you. And Bill, Gregor has often expressed regret…"

"That's emotional blackmail, Mycroft."

"I do not deny it. Have you agreed to donate sperm to Anthea?"

"Not yet, and I'm less inclined to the more I learn. What if Siger isn't put off?"

"You will have Arkady Yegorov guarding you. For as long as necessary. He is more capable than Gregor, Bill. Younger, quicker reactions…"

"Why are you still funding Dr. Leppälä, if you're going to use my ova?"

"It is another possible hope. It may be our only hope, if you refuse."

"Will you _let_ me refuse? You haven't asked permission for anything yet."

"I will. You have gone through enough. I hope you will decide to help us, though."

"My research project, the one you said I'd lead, that's all bollocks, isn't it? You just used it to get me here. I'm not a researcher, I'm a test subject."

"I am sorry, Bill. I really could not reveal this information earlier. Anthea does not know. Neither does Gregor."

"They're not stupid, either of them. Anthea won't have drugged herself without checking what she was using. She'll have been nosing around. And Greg knows about the chimerism. I showed him the paper. It was a published piece, there was no reason not to. We both realised that it referred to me."

"They do not know you are a Holmes. Or that Siger is your father."

"No. They don't know that. I want to talk to Greg."

"What I have told you is in confidence, Bill."

"I just want to ask him whether he regrets not having kids. I won't mention the other stuff. The chromosome stuff. I won't tell him I'm your…brother. I want to say goodbye to him."

"Of course. I will wait for you to make your decision."


	42. Stop talking!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lausanne
> 
> Greg has to leave. Billy doesn't want him to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skip to the last few paragraphs if you want to miss out the sex scene.

Lestrade rattles around the suite he shares with Billy, packing his few belongings, rolling up his bass leads and stowing them in his gig bag.

Billy opens the door quietly and watches for a while. Waits for Lestrade to notice him. Lestrade does, and sags a bit, shoulders slumping. 

"Hello Bill. Thought you were still in with Mycroft."

Billy walks across the room to him and puts his arms around him. 

"I wanted to say goodbye properly. I'm going to miss you. How long have you got before you have to go?"

"Couple of hours. Two and a half."

"Come to bed. I'll wake you up if you fall asleep"

"I expect someone else will, if you don't. You look scared, Billy."

"Don't want to be on my own again."

"You'll have Arkady."

"I won't be doing this with Arkady…"

He dips his head and kisses Lestrade, who moans and lets himself be pushed down onto the bed.

"Let me get these clothes off then. I'll need to keep them clean. I've packed everything else."

Lestrade strips. Billy watches, smiling. Lets Lestrade undress him. They lie together, stroking each other for a while, kissing each other's scars and tattoos. 

"Have you been to see Kristof?"

"Yeah. Went this morning, after Mycroft gave me my marching orders. Why, you worried I won't be capable?"

"The available evidence suggests that you will."

Lestrade grins. 

"That's my scientist. You going to do something with that, or just hold it?"

"I might have a use for it…"

"Might have? _I've_ got a use for it."

Billy laughs and rolls onto his front. Lestrade strokes his back, runs his fingers down his spine. 

"You're all bones. You're not eating enough."

"You haven't been cooking for me enough. What was in that bottle Sherlock gave you? It looked like oil."

"Cedar oil. You can only get it in that one place, apparently. He thought I'd appreciate it. I'll save it till you come home. Make something special."

"That'll be nice. Oh. That's _very_ nice."

Lestrade strokes Billy's thighs. High up, fingertips brushing his arse. He pushes Billy's legs apart a little. Billy wriggles happily. 

"Fuck. I'll have to get up. I packed the first aid kit."

"I don't need first aid…"

"The Vaseline, Billy."

"Oh. There's some in my jeans pocket. You're not the only boy scout around here."

Lestrade smiles and reaches down for Billys jeans, on the floor next to the bed. He finds a new tin of Vaseline, pops the lid and dips his fingers in it. 

He gently presses a finger against Billy's entrance. 

"All right?"

"Yeah."

Lestrade pushes the finger in, then another. Billy rocks against him.

"Don't move too much, Bill. Don't want you to come yet."

Lestrade pulls his fingers out. Billy whimpers. Lestrade moves between Billy's thighs, and carefully guides the tip of his cock in. Billy can't stop himself from pushing back against the pressure. Lestrade moves slowly, pushing in inch by inch until his hips are touching Billy's arse. 

"That feels so good, Greg. You're so big."

Lestrade smirks a bit. He feels good when Billy strokes his ego.

They move together, the slow, smooth slide becoming an intense build towards climax. 

"Greg, I don't think I can hold on…"

Lestrade stills, reaches around and grasps the base of Billy's cock, holds his fingers in a tight ring. 

"Like that, love. Hold it like that. It'll stop you coming for a while…"

Billy puts his hand over Lestrade's, holds his hand in place.

"All right now. Don't stop, Greg, please."

Lestrade moves again. Drives himself on. Comes explosively and collapses across Billy's back. 

"Billy, love. I need a minute. Just a minute."

He kisses Billy's shoulder, pulls out. Waits a few moments until he can breathe again. His heartbeat gradually slows and he slides sideways, to lie face down next to Billy. 

"I want you to come inside me, Bill. I want it hard and fast. No fingers. I want to burn."

"Lift up a bit then."

Lestrade pushes himself up onto his knees. His elbows shake, so he rests them on the bed. Billy grabs the Vaseline and smears it on his cock. He uses a lot, he doesn't want to hurt Lestrade. He spreads Lestrade's arse cheeks and starts to push in, slowly. 

"Do it, Bill."

Lestrade's voice is gruff, husky with emotion. He is on the verge of tears. 

"Please, Bill. Please."

Billy pushes in smoothly, not stopping to let Lestrade relax. He seats himself deep, and moves, fast. He is already close to coming, and it takes only a few hard strokes before he is there.

They collapse together, and Lestrade sobs. The sound sets Billy off, and they cry together. 

"I don't want to leave you here, Billy."

"I don't want you to go."

"I know, love. I know."

They hold each other tightly. After a while, Lestrade kisses Billy's hair. 

"I need to shower, love. Or I'll miss my plane."

"Good. If you miss it you'll have to stay here."

Lestrade laughs. 

"It'll only upset Mycroft, and he'll make my life a misery. Come and shower with me."

They shower together, soaping each other, touching each other as much as they can. Billy gets soap in his eyes, and they start to water. 

"Don't cry, Bill. You'll start me off again."

Lestrade wraps Billy in a towel, dries himself off and dresses. 

"Greg, do you ever wish you'd had kids?"

"What? Where did that come from?"

"Thinking of you donating sperm, I suppose. Do you?"

"Yeah. Sometimes. Jeanie never wanted them. I didn't push her."

"You'd have been a great dad."

"Yeah. I like my sister's kids. I like being an uncle. Yeah. I wish I'd had a kid of my own. But it's too late now."

"It's not too late. You could still…"

"I'm not going to go out and get some woman pregnant, Bill. I wouldn't want to have a kid that didn't live with me. I'd want to be a proper father. And don't say we could adopt. I'm too old."

"But if somehow it happened, if you did find out you had a baby…"

"Billy, I don't have sex with women. Not any more. It's not going to happen, love."

"But if, just if. If the mother didn't want it, would you…"

"Billy. I don't know why you're getting so frantic. Okay. Purely hypothetically. If I miraculously managed to get a woman pregnant without having sex with her, and if she, for some unfathomable reason, decided to give the baby to me, I would probably be the best father in the world. And I would never be able to believe my luck. You'd have to promise to be a good mother, though. I wouldn't want to be a single parent."

Billy smiles broadly. The penny drops in Lestrade's brain. 

"Billy. Is this about the project?"

Billy whispers

"I'm not supposed to talk about the project to anyone."

"Don't then. Mycroft might have you liquidated."

"What if…"

"Christ, Billy. Stop talking, now."

"Greg, if…"

"If, yes. Go for it. But stop talking before I have to knock you unconscious."

"All right."

"Now get dressed, so you can come and kiss me goodbye."


	43. Confidential

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lausanne
> 
> Arkady reads Billys file.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter reprises some things that occurred in the earlier series [Sea Glass and Tattoos](http://archiveofourown.org/series/124692).You can probably skip a lot of this if you have read that series, although this does give you Arkady's perspective, and a teeny bit of new information.

  
CONFIDENTIAL

Name: Bill Wiggins PhD, MSc, BSc 

DOB: August 10th 1986

Mother: Ellen Wiggins née Turner 

Father: **REDACTED**

Note: Ellen Turner married Charles (Charlie) Wiggins May 13th 1986. Subject was brought up as Wiggins's son. 

Arkady sniffs. Wonders who the father is. Wonders why the information has been redacted. Notes that Billy seems much younger than his actual thirty one years. Arkady would have put him in his mid-twenties.

He reads on, skimming through information about Billy's education. Noting that Billy took all his public examinations two years early.

" _You are a clever one, Billi."_

He narrows his eyes when he gets to the paragraph describing Billy's doctoral studies. _Sent down_. Arkady knows this means expelled. The reason for the expulsion is redacted.

Arkady blinks. Why would someone like this be expelled from University? He had been an exceptional student, gained a double first in his Bachelor's degree, distinction for his Masters. Almost completed his third doctoral studies year. What went wrong?

He continues reading, notes that someone whose name is redacted funded Billy to attend the University of St Andrews for a term in 2013. He was awarded his doctorate in the December of that year.

" _Ah. Someone helped you to complete your studies. But why such a long delay? And why not return to Cambridge?_ "

Arkady glances at Billy's work history. Nothing unusual there. Spells as a researcher and sometimes a teacher at St Andrews, Brunel, UCL, Calgary. " _Canada_?"

He gets to the more interesting, 'notes' section of the file. This is where he expects to find the 'real' Bill Wiggins.

May 2008: Subject identified as homeless in Camden. Report from **REDACTED**. 

July 2008: Reported as heroin user by **REDACTED**

" _Drugs. Was this why you were sent down? But you do not seem the type, Billi…"_

March 2009: Gang rape reported by **REDACTED**. No charges brought against 5 alleged perpetrators. Covert observation instigated. **REDACTED** deployed as covert handler and instructed to intervene if situations make it necessary, without alerting subject. 

" _Пять. Боже мой_ "

May 2009: Arrested by **REDACTED** on suspicion of operating crystal meth lab. Lab destroyed in explosion, cause unknown. No charges made against subject. Accommodation arranged covertly (squat, Camden high street).

May 2009 - August 2013: **REDACTED** reports activity as member of homeless network. No reports of criminal activity or drug abuse. Tattoo studio modelling work reported as source of minimal income by **REDACTED**. (BW1.jpg). 

Arkady clicks on the link to the picture of Billy's angel wing tattoo and whistles between his teeth.

August 2013-December 2013: Covert operation. St Andrews, Scotland. Successfully concluded, despite incidents (see below). 

Arkady reads through the list of "incidents"; an attack on Billy; a much more serious attack on his fiancé, whom Arkady knows to be Lestrade.

" _Ah, Grisha. What happened to you_?"

An attempt to steal Billy's research; Billy's engagement to Lestrade which was subsequently, and quite soon, broken off " _Did you end it, Billi, or did Grisha?_ " he wonders.

A new handler deployed. Arkady searches through the paragraphs looking for names, finds two. T.Dimmock, new handler, and T Knox, stalker.

Following the incidents there are notes detailing Billy's return to London, his employment as a researcher at Brunel, his new residence, the SeaGlass in Camden. " _A boat?_ " Arkady is intrigued.

January 2014: Subject acquires a new distinguishing feature (Tattoo: BW3.jpg) 

Arkady thinks the new tattoo must be significant. He clicks the link. It is ugly, like an open wound. He wonders if Billy was depressed when he had it done. Thinks he must have been.

February 2014: T Knox identified in Paris during a gang-related incident. Reported killed by **REDACTED**. Observation of subject scaled down. T.Dimmock returned to normal duties. 

Reports from covert observers follow the statement of Knox's death.

Billy works on medical research at Brunel; he lives alone on his houseboat; his dubious relationship with food is suspected to be an eating disorder.

He joins an amateur rock band with other Brunel staff and post-doc students, playing lead guitar. There is a link to a video clip of a pub performance. Arkady is surprised at how well he plays.

He dates T.Dimmock occasionally, but apparently has no other romantic or sexual relationships.

" _Hm. Do you feel safer dating your handlers, Billi?_ "

Lestrade's anxiety makes more sense to Arkady now, and he wishes he hadn't wound the other man up. Billy seems to have a history of getting involved with his bodyguards.

April 2014: Subject reported murdered. Identified from tattoos, height, hair colour. Victim later found to be look-alike D. Kerrigan, tattooed to resemble subject. (DK1.jpg). **REDACTED** heads covert investigation team consisting of **REDACTED** , T.Dimmock, **REDACTED** , **REDACTED** , J. Logan. 

Arkady clicks the picture link. It is obvious why they thought it was Billy. The tattoos on the corpse are very distinctive. " _This must have thrown you into a panic, Grisha_ ," he thinks. He wonders who Logan is. He reads on.

Subject kidnapped and missing for an extended period. Escaped and went into hiding. Resurfaced in May, relapsed and using heroin after being forcibly injected by kidnapper T.Knox, (previously erroneously reported killed in Paris).T.Knox shot by **REDACTED**. Captured by Metropolitan Police team under command of DI T.Gregson. Later detained by **REDACTED** pending enquiries into connections with **REDACTED**. Point of interest: T.Dimmock seriously injured by T Knox and **REDACTED** during unauthorised sting operation.

Arkady pours himself a shot of vodka. Drinks it and pours another. He is beginning to get concerned about the violence surrounding Billy, and particularly the violence perpetrated on his minders. He doesn't understand it. Billy seems quiet and gentle. Studious. He doesn't seem to have interacted much with anyone but his handlers, his postdoctoral colleagues and his band. Arkady finds Billy clever, funny. Delightful, in fact. What is it about this young man that generates chaos? There are too many redacted names in this file. He recognises Lestrade when he is described, suspects that some of the redactions must be Mycroft Holmes. But who are the others?

May 2014: Covert observation. Relationship with ex-fiancé **REDACTED** re-established. Subject remains on friendly terms with T.Dimmock. **REDACTED** moves into SeaGlass to live with subject.

Arkady frowns. The next half page is black. Completely redacted. Something important must have happened.

Reports from covert observers follow the blacked-out section. Billy becomes engaged to marry his redacted boyfriend " _Again_?", and the wedding is arranged for September 2014. Billy has some new distinguishing features.

Small text tattoo left wrist (Carpe Diem). Gunshot wound scars right lower chest (entrance) right lower back (exit). 

Arkady blinks. " _Someone shot you, Billi? Through and through. What damage? Liver? Ribs? How serious?"_

September 2014:Covert observation. Subject breaks off engagement and takes up research project at University of Calgary. Subject is accompanied by ward, F.Knox. 

Arkady frowns. " _F. Knox. A relative of the stalker?_ ". He is puzzled by this. He guesses the explanation must be in the missing half page.

December 2014-June 2016: Covert observation. Subject and research partner L. Callaghan sign civil partnership agreement in Alberta, Canada. L.Callaghan appears controlling and abusive. F.Knox is placed in school in Calgary, followed by University at Alberta. Subject sets up restricted trust fund for ward with help of **REDACTED**. 

" _Oh, Grisha. He married someone else. And still you took him back…"_

June 2016: Covert observation Domestic violence escalates. Subject is arrested and held in custody for violence against spouse. Defensive and other injuries (BW5.jpg, BW6.jpg, BW7.jpg) suggest subject's violence was in retaliation. Subject released and repatriated to London after intervention by **REDACTED**. Divorce proceedings instigated by subject and contested by spouse. F.Knox (now of age and no longer needing guardianship) elects to remain at university in Alberta. Covert observation of F.Knox and L.Callaghan ongoing. 

July 2016: Covert observation Subject re-established in London, living on SeaGlass in Camden. New contract of employment at UCL. T.Dimmock re-establishes contact with subject. 

August 2016: Covert observation.  **REDACTED** re-establishes contact with subject. Status of relationship unconfirmed. 

Arkady smiles tightly. Billy's ex-minders don't seem to be able to keep away from him.

December 2016: Divorce settlement agreed. Decree absolute confirmed. 

Things seem to have gone quiet after Billy's return from Canada. There are occasional short periods of employment on projects overseen by a redacted supervisor, in addition to his work at the university.

Lestrade and Billy are romantically involved again, but not living together or seeing each other very often. Arkady is surprised by this. They seem to be much closer than the observation reports suggest. They give the impression of being a well-established couple.

Arkady checks the reports again. Lestrade and Billy were engaged for only a few weeks before the incident that made one of them break it off in January 2014. The second engagement lasted just over a month. And they haven't seen much of each other since Billy's return from Canada, yet Billy gives every impression that Lestrade is the love of his life, and Lestrade is clearly besotted with Billy.

There is no mention of the current mission in the file. Arkady pours himself another shot of vodka and knocks it back. Calls Mycroft to make an appointment to see him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Пять. Боже мой" is pronounced "Pyat'. Bozhe moi." And translates to "Five. Oh, my god."


	44. Minders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> London
> 
> Lestrade goes home, and gets a phone call.

Lestrade is surprised to see John Watson waiting in the car that will take him to the airport. John looks tense. Angry, almost. His mouth is tight, and his fingers flex unconsciously.

"Didn't know you were going back as well, John."

"Under protest, Greg. Sherlock's got to stay until his infection clears up."

"I wanted to stay on as well. Something's got Billy really antsy, but apparently the Yard can't function without me."

John frowns. He too is needed at work. The partners in the private practice he works at are understanding, but he knows he can't push goodwill too far. He is worried about Sherlock, though. He knows he won't willingly stay in the medical wing. He hopes he will be allowed to come back to England within a few days.

"I still don't know what it was all about. Kristof's some sort of scientist, I think. Never saw what was in his ratty old suitcases."

"Yeah. They've kept me out of the loop as well. Some sort of research, according to Billy. He wasn't allowed to tell me anything about it, though."

They both lapse into silence as they are driven away. Lestrade looks back at Billy, standing outside the reception doors. Billy gives a little wave. Lestrade waves back, but doesn't know if Billy sees him in the dark.

"We were just getting to know each other again. Just…I'm worried about him, John."

"He'll be busy, I expect. Won't have time to get lonely. And he's got Yegorov there to keep him company."

"That's not entirely reassuring."

"You too? That's interesting."

"What is, John?"

"Sherlock and Yegorov were together for a while. When he was…"

"After he…? I didn't know that. But I'm not surprised."

"He's a lot like you, Greg. You and Sherlock…"

"You got married, John. So did Billy. Me and Sherlock, we sort of, well, cried together a lot. Things just happened."

"But you and him, before I met him…"

"No. He fascinated me, I admit it, but I was married, John. I was never unfaithful to Jeanie. Even though she was knocking off every Tom, Dick and Harry."

"I thought… God. I'm sorry, Greg. I've spent pretty much my whole time with him being jealous of you."

Lestrade huffs out a laugh.

"You have nothing to be jealous of me about. Sherlock's nuts over you. Can't understand it, myself…"

"Shut up Greg. I can see exactly why Billy fell for _you_."

"And I've left him with a younger, sexier version."

"Billy loves you, Greg. He keeps coming back to you…"

"You didn't see it, John. He came bouncing in to Sherlock's room, carrying Billy in his arms, both of them laughing, Billy all wrapped up in that fucking fur coat. He'd started looking after him almost before he'd even met him. Billy responds to being cared for. He can never get enough cuddling. And Arkady's a cuddler. And he's funny. And romantic. And he's one of my best friends. And he could take him from me…"

"He'll keep him safe, Greg."

"He'll turn his head."

"You're really worried, aren't you? You're going to have to trust them both, Greg."

The car pulls into the air terminal, and they are escorted directly to the private plane that Mycroft has organised for them. They board, and the crew settle them into their very comfortable seats.

"Better check to see where the parachutes are…"

"Fuck off, Greg."

Lestrade laughs.

"God, we've done some things this last couple of weeks, haven't we? I hope no one at the Yard saw that video of me cavorting on the stage."

John smiles tightly. He'd rather have been cavorting on stage than jumping out of an aeroplane.

"Did Kristof ask you for a sample, Greg?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Yes. Not Sherlock, though. I thought that was a bit odd."

"Billy said he was excluded from the sampling as well, on Mycroft's instructions. I wonder why…"

"Mycroft's got so many agendas it terrifies me, sometimes. That Kristof's a funny bloke."

"Didn't have much to do with him. Billy'll be working with him."

"Felt as if he was watching me all the time on the train."

"Maybe he fancied you."

John giggles. Sets Lestrade off.

"I'll miss Billy, John. But I'll be glad to get back to normal. Get stuck into some work. I felt a bit of a spare part."

"Me too."

Before they know it, almost, the plane is circling to land at London City Airport. There is a car to meet them, and they sit quietly in the back, looking out at the London rain.

"Are you going to Baker Street, John?"

"No. Going back to my own place till Sherlock gets back. You'll get dropped off first. St. John's Wood is on the way to Highgate."

Lestrade nods

"Yeah. Let's go for a pint on Friday."

"Okay. That's if…"

"Let me know if he gets back before then. If you can't make it."

*********

Lestrade jumps out of the car, jogs into his building and up the stairs. He dumps his luggage in the hallway and goes to the kitchen. His coffee maker beckons, he hasn't had a decent cup since the evening before meeting Anthea in Camden.

While the machine brews, he showers, revelling in the pummelling he gets from his own power shower.

He dresses in pyjama pants and t-shirt, pours coffee and makes himself comfortable on the sofa. He sends a text message to Billy, to let him know he is home. Moments later, his phone rings. Arkady Yegorov.

"Hello, Arkasha"

" _Ah. We are friends again, Grisha?_ "

"Yeah. I was being stupid. Sorry."

" _I too. I apologise. Grisha, Billi is having a meeting with Mycroft. They are shouting. Billi is shouting. Mycroft never shouts, of course. It could last some time. He left his phone here. When I saw your name_ _I thought I should call, in case you became concerned. If he did not answer straight away._ "

"Thanks. How is he?"

" _He misses you already. Grisha, may I ask something? Something personal?_ "

"Ask away."

" _I have been given Billi's file. It is heavily redacted._ "

"I can't talk about anything redacted, Grisha. And I've never seen Billy's file."

" _Ah. I will be discreet of course, but Mycroft has given me permission to discuss some things with you. Grisha, may I ask how long you were Billy's lover before you became engaged to marry? The first time?_ "

"Is that relevant to your job?"

" _Da. It is, or I would not ask so personal a question._ "

"We got together when we shared a house in Scotland. We were there for just over five months…"

" _You were lovers only for five months before deciding to marry? That was very quick…_ "

"No. The whole time we were together was five months. God, it seemed much longer. We weren't actually lovers all that time. We started…it was about six weeks after we went to Scotland. We got engaged about three weeks later."

" _That was a very short time, Grisha. Did you have second thoughts?_ "

"No. But I did break it off, for what I thought was a good reason at the time. It's complicated, but I sent him away the day after New Year's Day. I didn't see him again until May. He took me back. God knows how I deserved that. I moved in with him, and we got engaged again on his birthday. August. He went to Canada in September."

" _Grisha. The file I have covers the period May 2008 to now, 2019. You have been associated with Billi all that time, I think?_ "

"Yeah. But I was his handler until 2013. Covert. He didn't know."

" _So he thought you were a nice policeman looking out for his interests from the kindness of your heart? Was he so naive?_ "

"Yeah. Still is in some ways. I should have handled things better, Arkasha. I shouldn't have let myself fall for him. Especially after I found out he'd had a huge crush on me for years. But it was flattering, you know? I was having a bit of an identity crisis anyway, and he helped me through it…"

" _In eleven years you have lived with him for less than one, if we add all the periods together, and you have spent little time together otherwise. How is it that you give the impression of being…soul mates?_ "

"I don't know. We just seem to gravitate towards each other. Even when we've had other people in between."

" _He had another handler, a T Dimmock…_ "

"Theodore. Theo. yeah. He brought him back to London. Stayed on the boat with him. Went out with him for a while, once he'd been stood down."

" _Billi makes a habit of dating his handlers, when he is away from you…_ "

"Only one handler. Only Theo. And I dated him as well, later, after Bill got married."

" _Hmph. Is he a policeman, by any chance?_ "

"Yeah. Detective Inspector. Don't laugh, Arkasha. Billy likes coppers. You're in danger, mate."

" _I am aware of the danger. And of other dangers. There is mention of violent incidents perpetrated against Billi's handlers…_ "

"Theo was attacked. What else have you got?"

" _A handler in Scotland, un-named, but I know it is you. A near-fatal attack._ "

"Yeah. Nasty business. Billy still has nightmares about that. So do I. Have you got a name for the perpetrator?"

" _T. Knox_."

"Okay. Tom Knox tried to slice me in half with a machete. Damn near succeeded. Billy tried to stem the bleeding. Saved my life. And I thanked him by breaking off the engagement and sending him away with another man. Not my proudest moment."

" _Grisha_ …"

"Don't ask for more details, Arkasha. It's redacted for a reason. Theo's attacker was Knox as well. Do you have anything else from the time of Theo's attack?"

" _A kidnap._ "

"Knox again."

" _There is a large section completely redacted. From summer of 2014_ …"

"Good. Glad that's not in there. God, what can I say that won't get me into trouble?"

" _Tell me if it was more violence._ "

"Not exactly violence. An unsuccessful attempt to incriminate someone. There was violence, but against someone unknown to… anyone at the time."

" _Billi later appears to be guardian to a young person. F.Knox._ "

"He's named? That's interesting. Frankie Knox. Seventeen at the time. The other Knox's younger brother. Innocent. Abused by his brother. Knox is dead, Arkasha. I have seen him dead with my own eyes. He won't be attacking you, if that's what you're worrying about."

" _One man responsible for so much mayhem_."

"He was a crazy man, Arkasha. He was obsessed with Billy. And more obsessed with me. Theo got caught up in it. That shouldn't have happened. But that is over. Whatever you have to deal with, it won't be Tom Knox."

" _Grisha, there is a suggestion that Knox may have been connected to someone whose name is redacted. Someone still active._ "

"No, please, not more…. Arkasha, don't let Billy be separated from you. Stay with him at all times. The first attack on him came when he left my side for a couple of minutes in a bar. To go to the toilet, for god's sake. It was supposed to be a safe bar. There were police there, uniformed. Every time he was endangered, he was alone, because we thought the danger had passed. You're forewarned. You won't be caught out. Keep him safe, please. And talk to Sherlock about redacted names. You'll get more out of him than Mycroft, I should think."

" _I will keep Billi safe, Grisha._ "

Lestrade ends the call. He trusts Arkady to keep Billy safe. He hopes there is nothing much to keep him safe from.

His phone pings with a text message.

**To:GL: Just had a chat with Mycroft about the project. Don't know how long I'll be needed. I'll keep you posted, but can't mention anything TOP SECRET :) Arkady's nagging me to eat. I wish you could have stayed. Miss you XX BW**

**To:BW: Miss you too. Keep smiling XX GL**


	45. H

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lausanne 
> 
> Three more conversations

"I need to be able to talk to him, Mycroft. He'll think I've been lying to him if he finds out from someone else."

"Bill. I understand your anxiety, but Gregor Lestrade does not have clearance at this level."

"Then _give_ him clearance. Mycroft, if _I_ have clearance…"

"Very well. I will arrange for someone to speak to him in London. Someone who has the necessary clearance and will be able to assure him that you have not been keeping secrets. Will that suffice?"

"All right."

"Now, Bill, have you made your decision?"

"Yes. I'll have the surgery, but on one condition."

"You want Gregor Lestrade's sperm to be used."

"Not just that. He would be a brilliant father. I want him to have the chance."

"The child would have to be brought up as a Holmes, Bill."

"Lestrade-Holmes"

"His age counts against him. He is fifty four, Bill. He would be fifty five at the time of the birth, if a viable embryo can be implanted immediately. Sixty by the time the hypothetical child was school age. Given the stress of his job, and his reluctance to moderate his recklessness, he might not live to see him or her reach adulthood. If he does, he would be close to eighty when his child graduates from university. Would that be fair on the child?"

"I'm young. I'd be there…"

"You would be tying yourself to Gregor for the rest of his life. Are you really sure you want that? That you wouldn't resent him? It is a very big decision. You have already said you are not sure you want to have children. You could find yourself alone with a huge responsibility."

"I love him. He loves me…"

"I am sure that is true. But your relationship has been…unconventional, at the least. And you really have not spent extended periods of time together. A child would put enormous stress on you both. Think about it carefully, Bill. Weigh up the pros and cons. Use your analytical brain, rather than your heart."

"Yeah. I know it wouldn't be easy. I forget he's in his fifties, you know. He doesn't act it. Most of the time."

Mycroft sighs. He knows Lestrade would love a child, but he thinks Billy needs to see a bit more life before he settles down. He sometimes wishes he had never thrown the two of them together. He wishes Billy's one foray into choosing his own romantic partner hadn't ended so disastrously. He really, badly, wishes he hadn't put the idea of Lestrade fathering a baby into Billy's head. He changes the subject.

"Will you change your name to Holmes, Bill?"

"No. At least, not professionally. I'm published under Wiggins. That's who I am. I could maybe have Holmes as a middle name…"

"Bill Holmes Wiggins doesn't exactly roll off the tongue elegantly…"

"I'll call myself Bill H Wiggins. Let the H be a bit of a mystery."

"It should be a legal name change. There may be matters of estate, inheritance…"

"Yeah. Okay"

"I will have documents drawn up."

"All right. And you'll tell Dr Leppälä to use Greg's sample?"

"Very well."

"When will I have the operation?"

"The procedure should take place as soon as possible. Perhaps you could drop into the medical wing to discuss it with the surgeon when you leave here?"

"Yeah. Best to get it over with. Oh. There's the Anthea business…"

"I believe it would be better for Anthea to find a different father for her child."

"You think there's something dodgy going on. I can tell."

"You are a Holmes, after all. It would be strange if you were not able to deduce some things."

"You're not going to tell me what you suspect though, are you?"

"Not just yet."

*****

"He said no, Queenie. What am I going to do now?"

Queenie wraps her arms around Anthea, tries to comfort her.

"Why don't you just go to a sperm bank?"

"I want _his_ baby. His talents, his brain, his looks. His eyes. Gods, Queen, his eyes…"

"You couldn't be sure any child you might have had would look like him. It might have looked like you. I'm a bit worried about you obsessing over him. Maybe you ought to wait a bit longer, anyway. Wait till this project's finished. I'm sure it's not helping, having all this going on around you."

"I should have just done it while I had him drugged. He could have, before he got sleepy. He wouldn't have remembered."

"Don't say things like that, Helene."

"I'm getting _old_ , Queenie."

"I think you need a holiday, Hel. Have a break away somewhere. Talk to Mycroft, ask him for some leave."

"I'm going to talk to Bill first."

"He's having surgery tomorrow. He'll be too wound up tonight."

"It's not _fair_." Anthea wails. "If I don't get a sample in the next day or so I'll have to wait another month."

"So wait another month. The world won't end."

"You don't know what it feels like, Queenie. You'll _never_ know what it feels like." Anthea's eyes widen and she claps her hand over her mouth as she realises what she has just said.

"That's cruel, Helene. And not something I ever expected to come out of your mouth."

"I'm sorry, Queenie. I didn't mean…"

"Yes you did. Cry it out, sleep it off. Whatever. And see Mycroft in the morning."

Queenie unlocks her knee braces and sits in her chair.

"Where are you going?"

"Going to do some systems checks. It'll probably take a couple of hours. I'll see you later."

*****

"Billi. It is very late. You should try to sleep."

"I can't. I'm scared. And I'm starving."

"Come to the cafeteria then, eat something."

"I'm not allowed to. I'm having surgery tomorrow. I forgot to eat anything earlier. I feel sick."

Arkady sits beside Billy on his office sofa.

"Were you planning to stay awake all night? That would not be good for you."

"I'm scared to go to sleep, Kady. I'm scared I'll have nightmares."

"Kady?"

"Sorry. I can't get my mouth around Arkasha."

"So you have named me Kady as a friend? Da. It will do well, I think."

Arkady stands and picks Billy up. Walks toward the door. Billy goes rigid in his arms.

"What are you doing?"

"Putting you to bed. Since you will not go by yourself."

Arkady carries Billy to his suite, uses the key card he has lifted from his pocket, dumps him on the bed. Billy stays silent the whole time. Arkady pulls Billy's boots off.

"There. I have made a start for you. Change into whatever you wear for sleep, and go to bed. I will stay here with you. Grisha told me not to leave you alone."

"How did you get my card?"

"I stole it from you. As a lesson. You should take more care. The next person who steals something may not be so trustworthy."

"Where will you sleep, Kady?"

"I will not. Tomorrow, while you have your surgery, I will sleep. Then I will arrange for another bed to be put in here, for me to use. You have enough space, I think."

"Yeah. Loads. Thanks, I think."

Billy takes a quick shower and changes into soft, red-striped cotton pyjama trousers, and a plain white t-shirt. Arkady laughs as he walks back into the bedroom.

"What? What's funny?"

"It is relief, not amusement. I expected that you might wear a lacy nightgown…"

Billy laughs.

"Fuck off, Kady."

Arkady blinks.

"What have I done?"

"Sorry. It's just an expression. It means shut up, stop teasing, that sort of thing. If I really mean you to fuck off you'll probably be able to tell because I'll be shouting. Probably hitting you as well."

"Ah. It will take me time to learn your way of speaking."

"Look it up under 'common'. I'm not posh like… the Holmeses."

"You are self-conscious about class?"

"Sometimes."

"Do not be. They are not better than you. I deserved the invective for insulting your clothing again."

"Yeah. You did. I like lace. I like jewellery as well. And nail varnish. I might start wearing high heels…"

"Please do not. I already feel uncomfortably short."

Arkady laughs.

"But you are joking, yes?"

"Yeah. Is it all right if I switch the light off?"

"Da. Leave the door open a little, please. So I know you are all right. I will use a dim lamp in the sitting room, I have reading to do."

"All right. Good night, Kady."

"Спокойной ночи, Билли. Спи спокойно."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Spokoynoy nochi, Billi. Spi spokoyno." 
> 
> "Good night, Billi. Sleep well."


	46. Can you use a gun?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lausanne
> 
> Billy's surgery is successful.

Billy counts down from 100, gradually slowing as he drifts into sleep.

He hears snatches of conversation, but can't put them together to make any sense as he dozes in and out of consciousness. He wakes slowly and reluctantly, groggy from the anaesthetic. He panics for a moment when he tries to move his hands, then realises they are not tied down, only being held. He opens his eyes. Sherlock is sitting beside his bed, holding one of his hands.

"Hello Shezz. Did it go all right? The operation?"

"Yes Billy. It went well. Routine. Your recovery should be swift. The incision is small."

Billy turns his head to see who is holding his other hand. Blinks when he sees Mycroft.

"Bill, you have given us a great gift. Thank you."

"If it turns out to be useful. Remember what you agreed, Mycroft."

"I won't forget, Bill. Dr Leppälä is working on the samples now. We will have answers for you in a few days."

"Good. Have you told Sherlock you spoke to me? What you told me?"

Sherlock hmphs from the other side of the bed.

"You and I need to talk, Billy. We need to discuss when and how much to tell Lestrade about your background."

"Everything, Shezz. Tell him everything."

Mycroft catches Sherlock's eye, shakes his head almost imperceptibly, then leaves them alone to talk.

"I will be going back to London as soon as we know whether we have viable embryos. That will take a few days."

"All right. What happens to the embryos, if they're viable?"

"I understand that there are two surrogate mothers who will undergo embryo transfer immediately. Mycroft is interviewing for a third, to meet your condition, Billy. Lestrade's embryos, if viable, will be frozen until there is a suitable surrogate."

Billy frowns

"Only two surrogates waiting? But there are more donors than that, surely?"

"We are not trying to produce a football team, Billy. Dr Leppälä has need of sperm samples for other reasons."

"Oh. will Dr Leppälä's work on the X chromosome problem carry on?"

"Mycroft will continue to fund it, of course. It is worthwhile research, even if we no longer need it desperately ourselves."

"Good. Don't like to think of someone losing their research funding because of me."

Sherlock clears his throat, shuffles uncomfortably in his seat.

"Billy. I'm sorry we kept your connection to us from you."

"Mycroft explained, Shezz. And none of us can change what's happened. Regrets are pointless. I'm still a bit worried about Siger Holmes, though. It's weird that he knew I'd be in Paris. Do you think he knows I'm here?"

"He might, but Anthea is also here, Billy. She will be extra vigilant after the attack on you in Paris.  And Mycroft has his people in the field. You have Arkasha to look after your personal safety, too. There is no one better. He is waiting outside the door, twitching. Shall I send him in?"

"Yeah. Can I phone Greg?"

"No, Billy. Queenie monitors your phone. It is better if news about you doesn't go beyond you and your…brothers."

Sherlock smiles.

"For now, at least."

"Okay. Does Arkady know?"

"He has your file. Mycroft prepared it, so I do not know exactly what information it contains. Ask Arkasha to show it to you. It might be best if you do not fill in any of the blanks."

"All right. It's weird having brothers."

"Especially as one of them is Mycroft…"

Billy laughs, winces as his stitches pull.

"Okay. Bugger off now, Shezz. Let Arkady come and check I'm still alive."

*****

"He has been remiss. I am surprised."

Billy has been released from the medical wing. His surgery was minor, and there was no need for him to stay longer than overnight. Arkady has made him eat, and is fussing.

"Remiss, how?"

"He has allowed you to unpack all your belongings. To spread them around the suite, and in your office. He has allowed himself to trust his colleagues, despite there being clear indications that they do not all have your best interests at heart."

"You mean because Anthea drugged me?"

"Da. He should have placed himself on full alert from that moment."

"He did. But he was under her command, and she was acting under orders. And he was always nagging me to put stuff away in my bag. It's not his fault, Kady."

"You love him, so you defend him, Billi. Very noble. Pack everything that is essential in your bag now please. Have your coat and boots next to the bed. Practice dressing in the dark. Keep your papers in your pocket. And your bank card and cash."

"Are you expecting something to kick off?"

"Kick off? Like a football match, begin. Yes. It is always a possibility. Better to be prepared than not."

Lestrade had told Billy to trust Arkady. Mycroft and Sherlock had said the same thing. Billy starts packing, feels a bit panicky, drops things, unpacks and repacks.

Arkady picks up Billy's sketchbook, flips through it while waiting for Billy to finish, frowning at some of the sketches, smiling as he sees one of himself, in his fur coat. He hands the sketchbook back to Billy, who packs it away.

"Billi, can you use a gun?"

Billy gapes at Arkady.

"What?"

"Can you use a gun?"

"No. I don't like guns."

"Have you ever held one?"

"No."

Arkady sighs.

"Grisha…" 

He beckons Billy over to him and gives him a handgun. Billy tries not to take it, backs away.

"Billi. It is safe. It is not loaded. Feel the weight of it in your hand. It is heavy, da?"

"Yes."

Arkady loads the gun, makes sure the safety is on, hands it back to Billy.

"See how much heavier it is when it is loaded?"

Billy nods. Arkady removes the clip again, hands the gun back to Billy then walks around him, stands halfway behind him, right hand on his right wrist, left arm around his waist, left hand on Billy's left elbow.

"You are too tall. I cannot look over your shoulder easily. Hold the gun like this, in both hands."

Arkady shows Billy how to hold the gun, how to release the safety, how to aim. How to fire.

"You will only get one useful shot. Make it count. Aim for the centre of the chest. Squeeze the trigger smoothly."

"There's more than one bullet…"

"Da. But the weapon will recoil in your hand. It will throw off your aim, and you are not experienced. You will not be able to aim again quickly. The recoil might hurt your hand. One shot, Billi. Use it well."

"I hope I don't have to."

"Da. I hope so, too."

Arkady loads the gun, makes sure it is safe, packs it away in Billy's bag. He does not give him spare ammunition.


	47. Amnesia?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and John are back in London

"What happened to you?"

Lestrade peers at John Watson, taking in the obvious remains of a black eye.

"Don't know, Greg. Think I might have fallen out of bed the other night. Been getting some nightmares recently."

"Didn't think you got those much nowadays…"

"I don't, not often. But I can't explain it any other way. Just woke up with a headache and a black eye."

"You'd think it would have woken you up, I mean, banging your head on something with enough force to bruise like that…"

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? Can't explain it, anyway."

The two men walk slowly along the Victoria Embankment, eating chips out of the paper they are wrapped in. They should have met at the pub, but John had turned up at New Scotland Yard just as Lestrade was tidying his desk and suggested getting fish and chips instead. Lestrade had been surprised, but not unhappy. He was hungry, and food of any kind sounded good. 

The evening is chilly. It is the last week of February, and the warmer spring weather is still a few weeks away. Lestrade wears his overcoat open over his suit, his scarf hanging loose. In contrast, John is buttoned up tight, scarf wound two or three times around his neck. He has taken off his right glove, to eat the chips, but keeps the left one on. Lestrade doesn't think it is quite cold enough for gloves, but he is always a little warmer than most of the people he knows, so he doesn't remark on it. 

"Is Sherlock back yet? Haven't had any nagging texts for cases from him."

"No. Mycroft's sent him off investigating something in the south of France."

"Bit warmer there. Lucky bugger."

"Yes. I'll be glad when he's back, though."

They finish their fish and chips, and Lestrade starts walking towards the pub they habitually go to. John hangs back a little.

"I think I might just make a move home, Greg. Not really up for drinking tonight."

"Okay. Next Friday be all right? Come to my place if you don't feel like the pub. We can get a curry in."

"Yes. I'll let you know if I can't make it."


	48. Deductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toulouse 
> 
> Sherlock investigstes something.

Sherlock lifts his VeloSolex cycle onto the kickstand and takes off his crash helmet, scrubbing his hands through his hair. His cheeks are windburned where his goggles have left them bare, and his back aches from hunching over the handlebars.

He looks for all the world like a slightly eccentric academic on a house hunting trip,  viewing a secluded stone farmhouse not far outside Toulouse.

He looks around the outside of the property carefully and methodically, making deductions as he goes.

" _Tyre tracks on the driveway._ _Four vehicles._ _One heavy truck._ _One four by four, short wheelbase, driven in and out several times._ _Maximum three passengers._ _Two motorcycles._ _Outriders?_ "

" _Footprints.Too much overprinting. Some heavy boot prints. Four or five distinct sets. More indistinct. Large. Male. Military? One set small, distinct heel. Female? One set male, pointed toe. Dress shoe."_

He checks the largest outbuilding:

" _Dirt tracked in. Dust undisturbed in corners. Scrape marks across threshold. Door frame chipped. Heavy equipment. Four needed to carry something. Generator? Narrow wheeled trolleys. Small wheels, heavy. Gas cylinders_."

Inside the smaller outbuilding he examines more footprints. Bends and picks up a small fibre, a fleck of green paint. Peers at them through a small magnifying glass.

" _Rope. Sisal netting. Metal box. One end lifted. Dragged, then lifted. Heavy. Weapons crate?_ "

He picks the lock on the back door, lets himself into the house. The floors are scraped and scratched. 

" _Boot marks. A base, not a home_ "

Upstairs, bunk beds still bear the imprint of sleepers. He sniffs the bedding, scowls and swears, uncharacteristically. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and sends an exasperated text.

**To: MH: Missed him. He was here yesterday. Armed men. Six, at least. One woman. Following North. SH**

**To: AY: Be alert. Subject left Toulouse max 13 hours ago. Truck. Armed personnel. SH**

**To: SH: Acknowledged. AY**

**To: SH: Do not follow. I will alert Col. Smith. MH**

**To: SH: Sherlock. Do NOT follow. Acknowledge. MH**

Sherlock deletes Mycroft's texts impatiently. He closes the door behind him, walks quickly back to his cycle.


	49. "That was an electric fence…"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lausanne 
> 
> Arkady is action man. Billy tries.

**To: AY: Enemy helo on the way. MOVE. SH**

**To: SH: Acknowledged. Going dark. AY**

*********

Billy wakes up fighting. Someone is holding him down, a hand over his mouth. He struggles to get away, realises it is Arkady.

"Be silent, Billi. Listen to me."

Billy nods, scared at the tension in Arkady's voice.

"We have to move. Get dressed quickly. Put this on, and your coat."

He thrusts a heavy-knit jumper at Billy, and checks the room for anything that has remained unpacked. Satisfied there is nothing, he turns back to Billy.

"Billi. You must be very quiet. And you must obey every instruction I give you, immediately. Do not ask questions. Do you understand?"

Billy nods again. He dresses. Jeans, long-sleeved t-shirt, boots. The jumper is a little too short in the sleeves, but it is thick and warm. He puts his coat on, slings his despatch bag over his shoulder, the strap across his body, and goes to pick up his guitar case. Arkady stops him.

"Leave it, Billi. It will restrict your movement, slow you down."

Billy takes a deep breath, eyes prickling a bit. His guitar is part of him. He had chosen this one with Lestrade. He nods. Follows Arkady out into the corridor.

Arkady pops the catches on a window, helps Billy out onto a slightly sloping ledge, clear of snow and protected by the overhang of the main roof. They are at the rear of the complex, where the distance between the building and the surrounding trees is at its smallest. Arkady quietly closes the window behind them. He leans close to Billy, whispers in his ear.

"When I tell you, jump, as far out as you can. The snow is deep. It will cushion your landing. As soon as you hit the ground, run for the trees. Aim for that tall one, there."

He points towards a tree that is barely visible through heavy snowfall. Billy nods, swallowing bile. Arkady pats his shoulder.

"Go. Now."

Billy jumps, lands badly, his breath knocked out of him. He sobs quietly, hauls himself to his feet and runs for the tree Arkady had pointed out. He doesn't hear Arkady follow, only realises he is there when he grabs his hand, hauling him along faster. They reach the trees. Arkady stops and looks back. Everything is quiet. He turns to Billy and smiles.

"You are doing well. We go a little more slowly now."

Billy nods, still too scared to talk. Arkady leads the way through the trees until they come to the perimeter fence. He examines the fence carefully, listening as well as looking. Billy looks back towards the complex. He touches Arkady's shoulder. Whispers.

"Kady. All the lights have gone off."

Arkady smiles

"Good."

He pulls a multi-tool from his pocket, fans out tools, selecting wire cutters. He cuts quickly through the fence, and pushes Billy through the resulting gap. He follows, grabbing Billy's hand again, pulling him along.

Billy's chest is heaving by the time they reach the road, and he sobs for breath as Arkady hauls him across it and into the trees on the far side. The road is quiet, there is no traffic. Snow soon covers the marks left by their feet. Arkady puts his arms around Billy, hugs him tightly to him, stops him from sagging and collapsing.

"It is all right, Billi. Rest a moment."

"That was an electric fence…"

"Da. But it was powered by the same source as the complex. There is nothing else near."

"There might have been a separate circuit. You could have been electrocuted."

"There was not. I was not. Billi, if someone comes to attack, they do not want the perimeter fences armed."

"Right. Yeah. All right. But that means there was someone on the inside to switch it off."

"Da."

"Who?"

"Not me or you. That is all I need to know for now."

"Someone tipped you off."

"Sherlock. I trust him."

"Yeah. Me too. With stuff like this, anyway…"

"I understand. There are times you do not trust him. We must go on now, Billi."

Billy wipes his nose, sniffs and follows Arkady through the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly there…
> 
> Part two of the series is pretty much written. It'll be shorter :)


	50. No closure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> London, Lyon, Lausanne
> 
> The end of some things, the beginning of others.

**Lyon**

Sherlock sits in a cafe, drinking tea with lemon and enough sugar to make the waitress raise her eyebrows. He is exhausted, having spent two days tracing his quarry, only to lose him outside Lyon, when he and his troops boarded a transport helicopter. He has sent a warning to Arkady. Hopes he acted on it in time. Sherlock knows where his enemy is going, knows why. Knows there is no way he can stop him. He telephones his brother.

"I've lost him again, Mycroft. He's in a helicopter, from an airfield just outside Lyon. I couldn't get here quickly enough. I hope Anthea and Leppälä have managed to secure the samples."

_"Come home, Sherlock. You can do no more there, alone. Come home."_

The tiredness in Mycroft's voice echoes Sherlock's own tiredness.

Sherlock looks up at the TV set on the cafe wall. There is a news programme on. He watches, not really taking it in. He is not looking forward to returning to London. He knows John will still be upset at having been left home alone.

 

**Lausanne**

"I can't run any more, Kady. My knee hurts. My stitches are pulling. I think I'm bleeding. I need to stop."

"A little further, Billi. Just a little further."

 

**London**

Lestrade is tired. He has been working on a difficult murder case, and it is not going well. He puts the case file aside and packs up to go home. It is early enough for him to put the idea of a pint in the pub aside in favour of a trip to Waitrose and a home cooked meal. He gets halfway to the supermarket and changes his mind. He could do with the noise of people around him. It has been a bit too quiet at home. He has started to get used to having Billy around again, and the flat feels empty.

_"Have you been able to discover anything, Gregor?"_

Lestrade presses his phone up against his ear, puts his hand over the other ear to try to block some of the pub noise out. He watches the TV over the bar absently, a rolling news programme, terrorist attack of some sort, somewhere abroad. All too common nowadays.

"I saw him on Friday. He wouldn't take his left glove off. Kept his scarf wrapped round his neck. Had the remnants of a black eye. Said he must have fallen out of bed. Nightmare, he said, but he couldn't remember it. "

_"He is left-handed. There might have been marks on his hand…"_

"And on his neck. How can he not remember?"

_"It is the pattern. Sherlock recalls a minor incident from soon after his return from… exile, shall we say."_

"That's not in the file."

_"No. Sherlock himself was the victim. He did not want the incident to be subject to scrutiny."_

"But you knew."

_"Yes."_

"He needs a psychiatric assessment."

_"He has had several in recent years. And therapy. He will not agree to another one. He really does not remember his actions."_

"Can't you section him?"

_"Sherlock would never forgive me."_

"You've got resources…"

_"I refer you to my previous statement, Gregor. I will not do anything that Sherlock might see as harming his partner. You know Sherlock is not to be taken lightly as an adversary."_

"There's CCTV evidence this time. I should arrest him."

_"Yes. But I am asking you to keep him under observation. Sherlock must see the video when he returns. I do not want him obstruct us. The video evidence might convince him to stand aside."_

Mycroft breaks off the conversation. Lestrade switches off his phone and takes a swig of his pint, tries to concentrate on the TV news. He isn't happy about keeping Mycroft's secret.

 

**Lausanne**

Arkady sets a slightly slower pace, but Billy still finds it hard to keep up, despite his longer legs. He is not used to running. The snow sticks to his boots, makes his steps heavy. His coat is soaked where it has trailed in the snow. Arkady pushes him a little further.

There is another road. A yellow bus approaching. Arkady hails it from half way across the road and it stops to let them board. The driver makes a joke about the weather. Arkady laughs as he shows tickets. Billy doesn't understand what the driver says. He slides into an empty seat. Arkady sits beside him, places their bags on the floor. The bus pulls away.

"When did you get the tickets?" Billy whispers. "Did you _know_ this bus would come?"

Arkady whispers back.

"I broke into Mycroft's office and used his computer to print them off from the Swiss post website as soon as I got Vishka's first warning. I always research escape routes from everywhere. I looked up the timetable days ago."

There is the thud of a helicopter overhead. Billy looks out of the window. Arkady sighs with relief that Billy kept up with his pace. If they had missed the bus…

The *whump* of an explosion rattles the windows of the bus, two fields and another road away.

"Bozhe moi!"

Billy doesn't know what that means, suspects it might be something like his own _"Fucking hell!"_ The fireball is visible for miles.

"Kady…"

Arkady presses a finger to his lips, shakes his head silently. Billy takes the hint. Stays quiet.

They hear emergency vehicles on their way to the complex. Billy tries to hold down his panic. Arkady grips his hand tightly.

They are running silent, running dark.

 

**London**

The TV above the bar is showing a news programme. Lestrade watches as the foreign affairs editor describes a breaking story; a massive explosion at what is believed to be an industrial complex just outside Lausanne, Switzerland. He realises with growing horror that it is _their_ complex.

Lestrade phones Billy's number. Gets a recorded message. _"The number you have called is not available"_ He punches in Anthea's number. No reply. Queenie's. No reply. He tries Arkady. Gets the same message as he did from Billy's phone. He tries Mycroft. Straight to voicemail. Lestrade hits Sherlock's speed dial number.

 

**Lyon**

"Lestrade, switch on the news…"

_"Yeah. It's on. Mycroft's not answering me. Sherlock, I can't get hold of anyone. Not Anthea, not Arkady, not Billy…"_

Sherlock hears the panic in Lestrade's voice. Tries to calm him. Calls him 'Greg'.

"Arkady's very capable, Greg. He'll be running dark. Billy too, I expect."

_"You think they got out?"_

Sherlock hears the hope in his voice.

_"I don't know, Greg. I hope so."_

He breaks off the call and watches as the bulletin continues. Emergency services begin to arrive. The whole building seems to have exploded. A witness tells of hearing helicopters. Police are not ruling out terrorism. Sherlock waits for news of survivors. The bulletin loops. There is no further news.

He stands up, shakes his shoulders, walks to the station. Time to go home. Time to trust that Arkady got Billy out in time. He has no way of finding out. Not just yet.

 

*********

 

Mycroft sends in an investigative team as soon as emergency services declare the burned-out complex in Lausanne safe. He reads their report, lips tightly pressed together.

Sherlock leans over his shoulder, watches, grim-faced, as the report scrolls up the computer screen. He has only been back in London just over an hour, hasn't showered or eaten since leaving Lyon the night before.

  * _Evidence suggests missile attack from the air. Locals report hearing one or more helicopters just before the explosion._
  * _One survivor found at scene, identified as Sgt Fletcher. Found in foyer of building. Gunshot wound and burn injures. Airlifted to hospital in Geneva. Sedated and unable to talk as yet. Remains of electric wheelchair found near where victim was found._



"Queenie. I will fly out to interview her myself, Sherlock."

"Go quickly. If her injuries are severe…"

  * _Number of fatalities estimated at 16, but some areas of the complex were obliterated, therefore count may be off._
  * _One positive identification. Dr Kristof Leppälä. Found outside complex. Cause of death gunshot wound to the head._  



"There should have been only fifteen people there. We have sixteen bodies and one survivor. Two at least are outsiders…"

  * _Remains of 6 cryogenic storage flasks found in Dr Leppälä's laboratory. One intact flask found in foyer. Contents of all 7 exposed to ambient temperatures. No possibility of recovery of organic material._



"There were eight flasks, Sherlock. Is it possible that one was saved?"

"Possible. If you alerted Anthea in time. Perhaps she got away ahead of the attack. Mycroft, I'm sorry. I didn't expect this. I thought Siger was planning to storm the complex, steal the samples. Kidnap Billy…"

"You could not have foreseen this, Sherlock. It is not your fault."

_Locations of 15 unidentified fatalities, all with severe burns:_

  * _Medical wing (3)_
  * _Cafeteria (2)_
  * _Staff lounge (2)_
  * _Dr Grant's quarters (1)_
  * _Ms Granger's quarters (1)_
  * _Col. Smith's quarters (1)_
  * _Foyer (1)_
  * _Dr Leppälä's lab (2)_
  * _Corridor outside Mr Holmes's office (1)_
  * _Dr Wiggins's office (1)_



"Billy. Oh, no."

_Specific items search as per special request:_

  * _iPad found in Dr Wiggins's quarters. Damaged but data possibly recoverable from iCloud._
  * _Remains of two iPhones found in Dr Wiggins's quarters. Sims charred and partially burned. Probably irrecoverable. Data possibly recoverable from iCloud. One phone case charred but recognisably pink, presumed to belong to Dr Wiggins._
  * _Remains of Blackberry found in Col. Smiths quarters. Case melted, no evidence of sim._
  * _Turquoise Stratocaster guitar: found in Dr Wiggins's quarters. Case burned but instrument undamaged._
  * _Fur coat: No traces found._



"Arkady might have got away."

"He would not leave without Billy."

"Sherlock…"

"No Mycroft, I know him. He would _not_ leave without Billy."

"Then we must presume them both dead."

"Mycroft, I warned him. Before I called you. Before you could have called Anthea. If Anthea got out, Arkady would have got out. He would have taken Billy with him. He would have left their phones so they couldn't be tracked."

"Then who would have been in Bill's office? And why?"

"I don't know, Mycroft. But I'm not presuming them dead."

"Very well. But I will list them as presumed dead on my report. Our operation has clearly been compromised. If Anthea, Arkady and Bill are running, it is better that we do not let anyone know."

"That makes sense. What will you tell Lestrade?"

"I would prefer it if you spoke to him, Sherlock. He might need more comforting than I can offer. You must tell him they are presumed dead. He is likely to have a similar faith in Arkady to your own, and I leave it to you to decide whether or not he should be encouraged to hope. I will recover what data I can from Bill's iPad and phone. There will be pictures, musical compositions, things that have sentimental value. He might wish to have them. Ask if he would like to have the guitar."

Mycroft sags against the back of his chair.

"If DNA testing of the bodies provides proof of Billy's death, I will make arrangements for the funeral. He should be buried as a Holmes."

"Ironic and pointless."

"Lestrade will need closure, Sherlock. We owe him that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 50 chapters is enough for now, I think. 
> 
> The series continues- there are new places and old faces on the way.


End file.
